UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 


WORKS   OF  ALFRED  NOYES 
COLLECTED  POEMS — 3  Vols. 
THE  LORD  OF  MISRULE 
A  BELGIAN  CHRISTMAS  EVE 
THE  WINE-PRESS 
WALKING  SHADOWS — Prose 
TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 
SHERWOOD 
THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 
DRAKE:  AN  ENGLISH  EPIC 
POEMS 

THE  FLOWER  OF  OLD  JAPAN 
THE  GOLDEN  HYNDE 
THE  NEW  MORNING 
The  Torch-Bearers — WATCHERS 

OF  THE  SKY 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

WATCHERS 
OF  THE   SKY 


BY 


ALFRED  NOYES 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
FREDEHICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation 
into  foreign  languages 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CM 


^  PREFATORY  NOTE 

§  This  volume,  while  it  is  complete  in  it- 
3  self,  is  also  the  first  of  a  trilogy,  the  scope  of 
which  is  suggested  in  the  prologue.  The 
story  of  scientific  discovery  has  its  own  epic 
unity — a  unity  of  purpose  and  endeavour — 
the  single  torch  passing  from  hand  to  hand 
through  the  centuries;  and  the  great  mo- 
ments of  science  when,  after  long  labour, 
the  pioneers  saw  their  accumulated  facts 
falling  into  a  significant  order — sometimes 

k 

*  in  the  form  of  a  law  that  revolutionised  the 
.a 

"§  whole  world  of  thought — have  an  intense 

C/D 

human  interest,  and  belong  essentially  to 
the  creative  imagination  of  poetry.  It  is 
with  these  moments  that  my  poem  is  chiefly 
concerned,  not  with  any  impossible  attempt 
to  cover  the  whole  field  or  to  make  a  new 


376342 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

poetic  system,  after  the  Lucretian  model, 
out  of  modern  science. 

The  theme  has  been  in  my  mind  for  a 
good  many  years;  and  the  first  volume,  deal- 
ing with  the  "Watchers  of  the  Sky,"  began 
to  take  definite  shape  during  what  was  to 
me  an  unforgettable  experience — the  night 
I  was  privileged  to  spend  on  a  summit  of 
the  Sierra  Madre  Mountains,  when  the  first 
trial  was  made  of  the  new  loo-inch 
telescope.  The  prologue  to  this  volume 
attempts  to  give  a  picture  of  that  night,  and 
to  elucidate  my  own  purpose. 

The  first  tale  in  this  volume  plunges  into 
the  middle  of  things,  with  the  revolution 
brought  about  by  Copernicus;  but,  within 
the  tale,  partly  by  means  of  an  incidental 
lyric,  there  is  an  attempt  to  give  a  bird's- 
eye  view  of  what  had  gone  before.  The 
torch  then  passes  to  Tycho  Brahe,  who, 
driven  into  exile  with  his  tables  of  the  stars, 
at  the  very  point  of  death  hands  them  over 
to  a  young  man  named  Kepler.  Kepler, 

vi 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

with  their  help,  arrives  at  his  own  great 
laws,  and  corresponds  with  Galileo — the  in- 
tensely human  drama  of  whose  life  I  have 
endeavoured  to  depict  with  more  historical 
accuracy  than  can  be  attributed  to  much  of 
the  poetic  literature  that  has  gathered 
around  his  name.  Too  many  writers  have 
succumbed  to  the  temptation  of  the  cry, 
ue  pur  si  muove!"  It  is,  of  course,  rejected 
by  every  reliable  historian,  and  was  first 
attributed  to  Galileo  a  hundred  years  after 
his  death.  M.  Ponsard,  in  his  play  on  the 
subject,  succumbed  to  the  extent  of  making 
his  final  scene  end  with  Galileo  "frappant 
du  pied  la  terre,"  and  crying,  "pourtant  elle 
tourne."  Galileo's  recantation  was  a  far 
more  subtle  and  tragically  complicated 
affair  than  that.  Even  Landor  succumbed 
to  the  easy  method  of  making  him  display 
his  entirely  legendary  scars  to  Milton.  If 
these  familiar  pictures  are  not  to  be  found 
in  my  poem,  it  may  be  well  for  me  to  assure 
the  hasty  reader  that  it  is  because  I  have 
vii 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

endeavoured  to  present  a  more  just  picture. 
I  have  tried  to  suggest  the  complications 
of  motive  in  this  section  by  a  series  of  let- 
ters passing  between  the  characters  chiefly 
concerned.  There  was,  of  course,  a  certain 
poetic  significance  in  the  legend  of  "e  pur 
si  muove" ;  and  this  significance  I  have  en- 
deavoured to  retain  without  violating  his- 
torical truth. 

In  the  year  of  Galileo's  death  Newton 
was  born,  and  the  subsequent  sections  carry 
the  story  on  to  the  modern  observatory 
again.  The  form  I  have  adopted  is  a  de- 
velopment from  that  of  an  earlier  book, 
"Tales  of  the  M\ermaid  Tavern"  where 
certain  poets  and  discoverers  of  another 
kind  were  brought  together  round  a  central 
idea,  and  their  stories  told  in  a  combination 
of  narrative  and  lyrical  verse.  "The  Torch- 
Bearers"  flowed  all  the  more  naturally  into 
a  similar  form  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
Tycho  Brahe,  Kepler,  and  many  other  pio- 
neers of  science  wrote  a  considerable  num- 
viii 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

her  of  poems.  Those  imbedded  in  the  works 
of  Kepler — whose  blazing  and  fantastic  ge- 
nius was,  indeed,  primarily  poetic — are  of 
extraordinary  interest.  I  was  helped,  too, 
in  the  general  scheme  by  those  constant 
meetings  between  science  and  poetry,  of 
which  the  most  famous  and  beautiful  are  the 
visit  of  Sir  Henry  Wotton  to 'Kepler,  and 
the  visit  of  Milton  to  Galileo  in  prison. 

Even  if  science  and  poetry  were  as  deadly 
opposites  as  the  shallow  often  affirm,  the 
method  and  scheme  indicated  above  would 
at  least  make  it  possible  to  convey  something 
of  the  splendour  of  the  long  battle  for  the 
light  in  its  most  human  aspect.  Poetry  has 
its  own  precision  of  expression  and,  in  mod- 
ern times,  it  has  been  seeking  more  and 
more  for  truth,  sometimes  even  at  the  ex- 
pense of  beauty.  It  may  be  possible  to 
carry  that  quest  a  stage  farther,  to  the  point 
where,  in  the  great  rhythmical  laws  of  the 
universe  revealed  by  science,  truth  and 
beauty  are  reunited.  If  poetry  can  do  this, 

ix 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

it  will  not  be  without  some  value  to  science 
itself,  and  it  will  be  playing  its  part  in  the 
reconstruction  of  a  shattered  world. 

The  passing  of  the  old  order  of  dogmatic 
religion  has  left  the  modern  world  in  a 
strange  chaos,  craving  for  something  in 
which  it  can  unfeignedly  believe,  and  often 
following  will-o'-the-wisps.  Forty  years 
ago,  Matthew  Arnold  prophesied  that  it 
would  be  for  poetry,  "where  it  is  worthy 
of  its  high  destinies,"  to  help  to  carry  on  the 
purer  fire,  and  to  express  in  new  terms  those 
eternal  ideas  which  must  ever  be  the  only 
sure  stay  of  the  human  race.  It  is  not  with- 
in the  province  of  science  to  attempt  a  post- 
Copernican  justification  of  the  ways  of  God 
to  man;  but,  in  the  laws  of  nature  revealed 
by  science,  and  in  "that  grand  sequence  of 
events  which" — as  Darwin  affirmed — "the 
mind  refuses  to  accept  as  the  result  of  blind 
chance,"  poetry  may  discover  its  own  new 
grounds  for  the  attempt.  It  is  easy  to  as- 
sume that  all  hope  and  faith  are  shallow. 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

It  is  even  easier  to  practise  a  really  shallow 
and  devitalising  pessimism.  The  modern 
annunciation  that  there  is  a  skeleton  an  inch 
beneath  the  skin  of  man  is  neither  new  nor 
profound.  Neither  science  nor  poetry  can 
rest  there;  and  if,  in  this  poem,  an  attempt 
is  made  to  show  that  spiritual  values  are  not 
diminished  or  overwhelmed  by  the  "fifteen 
hundred  universes"  that  passed  in  review 
before  the  telescope  of  Herschel,  it  is  only 
after  the  opposite  argument — so  common 
and  so  easy  to-day — has  been  faced;  and 
only  after  poetry  has  at  least  endeavoured 
to  follow  the  torch  of  science  to  its  own 
deep-set  boundary-mark  in  that  immense 
darkness  of  Space  and  Time. 


XI 


CONTENTS 

PAOB 

Prologue i 

I.     Copernicus 20 

II.     Tycho  Brahe 36 

III.  Kepler         .      .      .      .      .,     .      .  102 

IV.  Galileo  ........  131 

V.     Newton 184 

VI.     William  Herschel  Conducts    .      .231 

VII.     Sir  John  Herschel  Remembers     .    244 

Epilogue      ....     ,.      .      .   272 


PROLOGUE 

THE  OBSERVATORY 

AT  noon,  upon  the  mountain's  purple 
height, 
Above  the  pine-woods  and  the  clouds  it 

shone 
No  larger  than  the  small  white  dome  of 

shell 
Left  by  the  fledgling  wren  when  wings  are 

born. 

By  night  it  joined  the  company  of  heaven, 
And,   with   its   constant   light,   became   a 

star. 

A  needle-point  of  light,  minute,  remote, 
It  sent  a  subtler  message  through  the  abyss, 
Held  more  significance  for  the  seeing  eye 
Than  all  the  darkness  that  would  blot  it 

out, 
Yet  could  not  dwarf  it. 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

High  in  heaven  it  shone, 
Alive  with  all  the  thoughts,  and  hopes,  and 

dreams 
Of  man's  adventurous  mind. 

Up  there,  I  knew 

The  explorers  of  the  sky,  the  pioneers 
Of  science,  now  made  ready  to  attack 
That  darkness  once  again,  and  win  new 

worlds. 
To-morrow  night  they  hoped  to  crown  the 

toil 

Of  twenty  years,  and  turn  upon  the  sky 
The  noblest  weapon  ever  made  by  man. 
War  had  delayed  them.     They  had  been 

drawn  away 

Designing  darker  weapons.     But  no  gun 
Could  outrange  this. 

"To-morrow  night" — so  wrote  their  chief — 

"we  try 

Our  great  new  telescope,  the  hundred-inch. 
Your  Milton's  'optic  tube'  has  grown  in 

power 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Since  Galileo,  famous,  blind,  and  old, 
Talked  with  him,  in  that  prison,  of  the 

sky. 
We  creep  to  power  by  inches.     Europe 

trusts 

Her  'giant  forty'  still.    Even  to-night 
Our  own  old  sixty  has  its  work  to  do ; 
And  now  our  hundred-inch  ...  I  hardly 

dare 
To  think  what  this  new  muzzle  of  ours 

may  find. 
Come  up,  and  spend  that  night  among  the 

stars 
Here,  on  our  mountain-top.     If  all  goes 

well, 
Then,  at  the  least,  my  friend,  you'll  see  a 

moon 

Stranger,  but  nearer,  many  a  thousand  mile 
Than   earth   has   ever   seen   her,   even   in 

dreams. 

As  for  the  stars,  if  seeing  them  were  all, 
Three  thousand  million  new-found  points 

of  light 

[3] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Is  our  rough  guess.     But  never  speak  of 

this. 
You  know  our  press.    They'd  miss  the  one 

result 
To  flash  'three  thousand  millions'   round 

the  world." 
To-morrow  night!    For  more  than  twenty 

years, 
They  had  thought  and  planned  and  worked. 

Ten  years  had  gone, 

One-fourth,  or  more,  of  man's  brief  work- 
ing life, 

Before  they  made  those  solid  tons  of  glass, 
Their    hundred-inch    reflector,    the    clear 

pool, 

The  polished  flawless  pool  that  it  must  be 
To  hold  the  perfect  image  of  a  star. 
And,  even  now,  some  secret  flaw — none 

knew 

Until  to-morrow's  test — might  waste  it  all. 
Where  was  the  gambler  that  would  stake 

so  much, — 

[4] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Time,  patience,  treasure,  on  a  single  throw? 
The  cost  of  it, — they'd  not  find  that  again, 
Either  in  gold  or  life-stuff!    All  their  youth 
Was  fuel  to  the  flame  of  this  one  work. 
Once  in  a  lifetime  to  the  man  of  science, 
Despite  what  fools  believe  his  ice-cooled 

blood, 
There  comes  this  drama. 

If  he  fails,  he  fails 
Utterly.    He  at  least  will  have  no  time 
For    fresh    beginnings.      Other    men,    no 

doubt, 
Years  hence,  will  use  the  footholes  that  he 

cut 
In  those  precipitous  cliffs,  and  reach  the 

height, 
But  he  will  never  see  it." 

So  for  me, 
The  light  words  of  that  letter  seemed  to 

hide 

The  passion  of  a  lifetime,  and  I  shared 
The  crowning  moment  of  its  hope  and  fear. 

[5] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Next  day,   through  whispering  aisles   of 

palm  we  rode 

Up  to  the  foot-hills,  dreaming  desert-hills 
That  to  assuage  their  own  delicious  drought 
Had  set  each  tawny  sun-kissed  slope  ablaze 
With  peach  and  orange  orchards. 

Up  and  up, 
Along  the  thin  white  trail  that  wound  and 

climbed 
And  zig-zagged  through  the  grey-green 

mountain  sage, 
The  car  went  crawling,   till   the   shining 

plain 

Below  it,  like  an  airman's  map,  unrolled. 
Houses  and  orchards  dwindled  to  white 

specks 

In  midget  cubes  and  squares  of  tufted  green. 
Once,  as  we  rounded  one  steep  curve,  that 

made 

The  head  swim  at  the  canyoned  gulf  be- 
low, 

We  saw  through  thirty  miles  of  lucid  air 
Elvishly  small,  sharp  as  a  crumpled  petal 
[6] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Blown  from  the  stem,  a  yard  away,  a  sail 
Lazily  drifting  on  the  warm  blue  sea. 
Up  for  nine  miles  along  that  spiral  trail 
Slowly    we    wound    to    reach    the    lucid 

height 
Above  the  clouds,  where  that  white  dome 

of  shell, 

No  wren's  now,  but  an  eagle's,  took  the  flush 
Of  dying  day.     The  sage-brush  all  died 

out, 
And  all  the  southern  growths,  and  round 

us  now, 
Firs  of  the  north,  and  strong,  storm-rooted 

pines 

Exhaled  a  keener  fragrance;  till,  at  last, 
Reversing  all  the  laws  of  lesser  hills, 
They  towered  like  giants  round  us.     Dark- 
ness fell 
Before  we  reached  the  mountain's  naked 

height. 

Over  us,  like  some  great  cathedral  dome, 
The  observatory  loomed  against  the  sky; 
[7] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

And  the  dark  mountain  with  its  headlong 

gulfs 

Had  lost  all  memory  of  the  world  below; 
For  all  those  cloudless  throngs  of  glitter- 
ing stars 
And  all  those  glimmerings  where  the  abyss 

of  space 

Is  powdered  with  a  milky  dust,  each  grain 
A  burning  sun,  and  every  sun  the  lord 
Of   its   own   darkling   planets, — all    those 

lights 

Met,  in  a  darker  deep,  the  lights  of  earth, 
Lights  on  the  sea,  lights  of  invisible  towns, 
Trembling  and  indistinguishable  from  stars, 
In  those  black  gulfs  around  the  mountain's 

feet. 
Then,  into  the  glimmering  dome,  with  bated 

breath, 

We  entered,  and,  above  us,  in  the  gloom 
Saw  that  majestic  weapon  of  the  light 
Uptowering  like  the  shaft  of  some  huge  gun 
Through  one  arched  rift  of  sky. 

Dark  at  its  base 
[8] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

With  naked  arms,  the  crew  that  all  day 

long 

Had  sweated  to  make  ready  for  this  night 
Waited  their  captain's  word. 

The  switchboard  shone 
With  elfin  lamps  of  white  and  red,   and 

keys 
Whence,  at  a  finger's  touch,  that  monstrous 

tube 
Moved  like  a  creature  dowered  with  life 

and  will, 
To  peer  from  deep  to  deep. 

Below  it  pulsed 
The  clock-machine  that  slowly,  throb  by 

throb, 

Timed  to  the  pace  of  the  revolving  earth, 
Drove  the  titanic  muzzle  on  and  on, 
Fixed  to  the  chosen  star  that  else  would 

glide 
Out  of  its  field  of  vision. 

So,  set  free 
Balanced   against   the   wheel   of    time,   it 

swung, 

[9] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Or  rested,  while,  to  find  new  realms  of  sky 
The  dome  that  housed  it,  like  a  moon  re- 
volved, 

So  smoothly  that  the  watchers  hardly  knew 
They  moved  within;  till,  through  the  glim- 
mering doors, 

They  saw  the  dark  procession  of  the  pines 
Like  Indian  warriors,  quietly  stealing  by. 

Then,  at  a  word,  the  mighty  weapon  dipped 
Its  muzzle  and  aimed  at  one  small  point  of 

light 
One  seeming  insignificant  star. 

The  chief, 
Mounting  the  ladder,  while  we  held  our 

breath, 
Looked  through  the  eye-piece. 

Then  we  heard  him  laugh 
His  thanks  to  God,  and  hide  it  in  a  jest. 
"A  prominence  on  Jupiter!" — 

They  laughed, 

"What    do    you    mean?" — "It's    moving," 
cried  the  chief, 

[10] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

They  laughed  again,  and  watched  his  glim- 
mering face 

High  overhead  against  that  moving  tower. 
"Come  up  and  ssee,  then!" 

One  by  one  they  went, 
And,  though  each  laughed  as  he  returned 

to  earth, 
Their  souls  were  in  their  eyes. 

Then  I,  too,  looked, 

And  saw  that  insignificant  spark  of  light 
Touched  with  new  meaning,   beautifully 

reborn, 
A   swimming   world,    a   perfect    rounded 

pearl, 

Poised  in  the  violet  sky;  and,  as  I  gazed, 
I  saw  a  miracle, — right  on  its  upmost  edge 
A  tiny  mound  of  white  that  slowly  rose, 
Then,  like  an  exquisite  seed-pearl,  swung 

quite  clear 

And  swam  in  heaven  above  its  parent  world 
To  greet  its  three  bright  sister-moons. 

A  moon, 
Of  Jupiter,  no  more,  but  clearer  far 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Than  mortal  eyes  had  seen  before  from 

earth, 

O,  beautiful  and  clear  beyond  all  dreams 
Was  that  one  silver  phrase  of  the  starry 

tune 

Which  Galileo's  "old  discoverer"  first 
Dimly  revealed,  dissolving  into  clouds 
The  imagined  fabric  of  our  universe. 
"Jupiter  stands  in  heaven  and  will  stand 
Though  all  the  sycophants  bark  at  him,"  he 

cried, 
Hailing   the   truth   before   he,    too,   went 

down, 
Whelmed  in  the  cloudy  wreckage  of  that 

dream. 

So  one  by  one  we  looked,  the  men  who 

served 

Urania,  and  the  men  from  Vulcan's  forge. 
A  beautiful  eagerness  in  the  darkness  lit 
The  swarthy  faces  that  too  long  had  missed 
A  meaning  in  the  dull  mechanic  maze 

[12] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Of  labour  on  this  blind  earth,  but  found  it 
now. 

Though  only  a  moment's  wandering  melody 

Hopelessly  far  above,  it  gave  their  toil 

Its  only  consecration  and  its  joy. 

There,    with    dark-smouldering   eyes    and 
naked  throats, 

Blue-dungareed,   red-shirted,   grimed   and 
smeared 

With  engine-grease  and  sweat,  they  gath- 
ered round 

The  foot  of  that  dim  ladder;  each  mutter- 
ing low 

As  he  came  down,  his  wonder  at  what  he 
saw 

To  those  who  waited, — a  picture  for  the 
brush 

Of  Rembrandt,  lighted  only  by  the  rift 

Above    them,    where    the    giant    muzzle 
thrust 

Out  through  the  dim  arched  roof,  and  slow- 
ly throbbed, 

[13] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Against  the  slowly  moving  wheel  of   the 

earth, 
Holding  their  chosen  star. 

There,  like  an  elf, 
Perched  on  the  side  of  that  dark  slanting 

tower 
The     Italian    mechanician    watched     the 

moons, 
That  Italy  discovered. 

One  by  one, 
American,    English,   French,    and    Dutch, 

they  climbed 
To  see  the  wonder  that  their  own  blind 

hands 
Had  helped  to  achieve. 

At  midnight  while  they  paused 
To  adjust  the  clock-machine,  I  wandered 

out 

Alone,  into  the  silence  of  the  night. 
The    silence?     On  that    lonely    height    1 

heard 

Eternal  voices ; 
For,  as  I  looked  into  the  gulf  beneath, 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Whence  almost  all  the  lights  had  vanished 

now, 
The  whole  dark  mountain  seemed  to  have 

lost  its  earth 
And   to   be   sailing   like    a   ship   through 

heaven. 
All   round  it  surged  the  mighty  sea-like 

sound 
Of  soughing  pine-woods,  one  vast  ebb  and 

flow 
Of  absolute  peace,  aloof  from  all  earth's 

pain, 

So  calm,  so  quiet,  it  seemed  the  cradle- 
song, 

The  deep  soft  breathing  of  the  universe 
Over  its  youngest  child,  the  soul  of  man. 
And,  as  I  listened,  that  /Eolian  voice 
Became  an  invocation  and  a  prayer: 
O  you,  that  on  your  loftier  mountain  dwell 
And  move  like  light  in  light  among  the 

thoughts 

Of  heaven,  translating  our  mortality 
Into  immortal  song,  is  there  not  one 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Among  you  that  can  turn  to  music  now 
This  long  dark  fight  for  truth?    Not  one  to 

touch 

With  beauty  this  long  battle  for  the  light, 
This  little  victory  of  the  spirit  of  man 
Doomed  to  defeat — for  what  was  all  we  saw 
To  that  which  neither  eyes  nor  soul  could 

see? — 

Doomed  to  defeat  and  yet  unconquerable, 
Climbing  its  nine  miles  nearer  to  the  stars. 
Wars  we  have  sung.  The  blind,  blood- 

boltered  kings 

Move  with  an  epic  music  to  their  thrones. 
Have  you  no  song,  then,  of  that  nobler  war? 
Of  those  who  strove  for  light,  but  could  not 

dream 
Even  of  this  victory  that  they  helped  to 

win, 

Silent  discoverers,  lonely  pioneers, 
Prisoners  and  exiles,  martyrs  of  the  truth 
Who  handed  on  the  fire,  from  age  to  age; 
Of  those  who,  step  by  step,  drove  back 

the  night 

[16] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And  struggled,  year  on  year,  for  one  more 

glimpse 
Among   the    stars,    of   sovran    law,    their 

guide; 
Of  those  who  searching  inward,  saw  the 

rocks 

Dissolving  into  a  new  abyss,  and  saw 
Those  planetary  systems  far  within, 
Atoms,  electrons,  whirling  on  their  way 
To  build  and  to  unbuild  our  solid  world ; 
Of  those  who  conquered,  inch  by  difficult 

inch, 

The  freedom  of  this  realm  of  law  for  man ; 
Dreamers  of  dreams,  the  builders  of  our 

hope, 

The  healers  and  the  binders  up  of  wounds, 
Who,  while  the  dynasts  drenched  the  world 

with  blood, 

Would  in  the  still  small  circle  of  a  lamp 
Wrestle  with  death  like  Heracles  of  old 
To  save  one  stricken  child. 

Is  there  no  song 
To  touch  this  moving  universe  of  law 

[17] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

With  ultimate  light,  the  glimmer  of  that 

great  dawn 
Which  over  our  ruined   altars  yet  shall 

break 

In  purer  splendour,  and  restore  mankind 
From  darker  dreams  than  even  Lucretius 

knew 
To  vision  of  that  one  Power  which  guides 

the  world. 
How  should  men  find  it?     Only  through 

those  doors 
Which,  opening  inward,  in  each  separate 

soul 

Give  each  man  access  to  that  Soul  of  all 
Living  within  each  life,  not  to  be  found 
Or  known,  till,  looking  inward,  each  alone 
Meets  the  unknowable  and  eternal  God. 

And  there  was  one  that  moved  like  light 

in  light 

Before  me  there, — Love,  human  and  divine, 

That  can  exalt  all  weakness  into  power, — 

[IS] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Whispering,   Take  this  deathless  torch  of 

song  .  .  . 
Whispering,  but  with  such  faith,  that  even 

I 

Was  humbled  into  thinking  this  might  be 
Through  love,  though  all  the  wisdom  of 

the  world 
Account  it  folly. 

Let  my  breast  be  bared 
To  every  shaft,  then,  so  that  Love  be  still 
My  one  celestial  guide  the  while  I  sing 
Of  those  who  caught  the  pure  Promethean 

fire 
One  from  another,  each  crying  as  he  went 

down 
To  one  that  waited,  crowned  with  youth 

and  joy, — 
Take  thou  the  splendour,  carry  it  out  of 

sight 

Into  the  great  new  age  I  must  not  know, 
Into  the  great  new  realm  I  must  not  tread. 


COPERNICUS 

THE  neighbours  gossiped  idly  at  the 
door. 

Copernicus  lay  dying  overhead. 
His  little  throng  of  friends,  with  startled 

eyes, 
Whispered  together,  in  that  dark  house  of 

dreams, 

From  which  by  one  dim  crevice  in  the  wall 
He  used  to  watch  the  stars. 

"His  book  has  come 
From  Nuremberg  at  last;  but  who  would 

dare 
To  let  him  see  it  now?" — 

"They  have  altered  it! 
Though  Rome  approved  in  full,  this  pref- 
ace, look, 

[20] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Declares     that     his     discoveries     are     a 

dream!" — 
"He 'has  asked  a  thousand  times  if  it  has 

come; 
Could  we  tear  out  those  pages?" — 

"He'd  suspect."— 
"What  shall  be  done,  then?"— 

"Hold  it  back  awhile. 
That  was  the  priest's  voice  in  the  room 

above. 

He  may  forget  it.     Those  last  sacraments 
May  set  his  mind  at  rest,  and  bring  him 

peace." — 

Then,  stealing  quietly  to  that  upper  door, 
They  opened  it  a  little,  and  saw  within 
The  lean  white  deathbed  of  Copernicus 
Who  made  our  world  a  world  without  an 

end. 
There,  in  that  narrow  room,  they  saw  his 

face 
Grey,  seamed  with  thought,  lit  by  a  single 

lamp; 
They  saw  those  glorious  eyes 

[2,] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Closing,  that  once  had  looked  beyond  the 

spheres 

And  seen  our  ancient  firmaments  dissolve 
Into  a  boundless  night. 

Beside  him  knelt 
Two  women,  like  bowed  shadows.     At  his 

feet, 

An  old  physician  watched  him.  At  his  head, 
The  cowled  Franciscan  murmured,  while 

the  light 
Shone  faintly  on  the  chalice. 

All  grew  still. 
The  fragrance  of  the  wine  was  like  faint 

flowers, 
The    first    breath    of    those    far    celestial 

fields.  ... 

Then,  like  a  dying  soldier,  that  must  leave 
His  last  command  to  others,  while  the  fight 
Is  yet  uncertain,  and  the  victory  far, 
Copernicus  whispered,  in  a  fevered  dream, 
"Yes,  it  is  Death.  But  you  must  hold  him 
back, 

[22] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

There,  in  the  doorway,  for  a  little  while, 
Until  I  know  the  work  is  rightly  done. 
Use  all  your  weapons,  doctor.    I  must  live 
To  see  and  touch  one  copy  of  my  book. 
Have  they  not  brought  it  yet? 

They  promised  me 
It  should  be  here  by  nightfall. 

One  of  you  go 

And  hasten  it.     I  can  hold  back 
Death  till  dawn. 

Have  they  not  brought  it  yet? — from  Nu- 
remberg. 

Do  not  deceive  me.     I  must  know  it  safe, 

Printed  and  safe,  for  other  men  to  use. 

I  could  die  then.     My  use  would  be  ful- 
filled. 

What  has  delayed  them?    Will  not  some 
one  go 

And  tell  them  that  my  strength  is  running 
out? 

Tell  them  that  book  would  be  an  angel's 
hand 

[23] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

In  mine,  an  easier  pillow  for  my  head, 
A  little  lantern  in  the  engulfing  dark. 
You  see,  I  hid  its  struggling  light  so  long 
Under  too  small  a  bushel,  and  I  fear 
It  may  go  out  forever.     In  the  noon 
Of  life's  brief  day,  I  could  not  see  the  need 
As  now  I  see  it,  when  the  night  shuts  down. 
I  was  afraid,  perhaps,  it  might  confuse 
The  lights  that  guide  us  for  the  souls  of 
men. 

But  now  I  see  three  stages  in  our  life. 
At  first,  we  bask  contented  in  our  sun 
And  take  what  daylight  shows  us  for  the 

truth. 

Then  we  discover,  in  some  midnight  grief, 
How  all  day  long  the  sunlight  blinded  us 
To  depths  beyond,  where  all  our  knowledge 

dies. 
That's  where  men  shrink,   and  lose  their 

way  in  doubt. 
Then,  last,  as  death  draws  nearer,  comes 

a  night 

[24] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

In  whose  majestic  shadow  men  see  God, 

Absolute  Knowledge,  reconciling  all. 

So,    all    my    life    I    pondered    on    that 

scheme 
Which  makes  this  earth  the  centre  of  all 

worlds, 
Lighted  and  wheeled  around  by  sun  and 

moon 
And  that  great  crystal  sphere  wherein  men 

thought 
Myriads   of   lesser   stars  were   fixed   like 

lamps, 
Each  in  its  place, — one  mighty  glittering 

wheel 

Revolving  round  this  dark  abode  of  man. 
Night  after  night,  with  even  pace  they 

moved, 

Year  after  year,  not  altering  by  one  point, 
Their  order,  or  their  stations,  those  fixed 

stars 

In  that  revolving  firmament.    The  Plough 
Still  pointed  to  the  Pole.     Fixed  in  their 

sphere, 

[25] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

How  else    explain    that   vast    unchanging 

wheel? 

How,  but  by  thinking  all  those  lesser  lights 
Were  huger  suns,  divided  from  our  earth 
By  so  immense  a  gulf  that,  if  they  moved 
Ten  thousand  leagues  an  hour  among  them- 
selves, 
It  would  not  seem  one  hair's-breadth  to 

our  eyes. 

Utterly  inconceivable,  I  know; 
And    yet    we    daily    kneel    to    boundless 

Power 
And  build  our  hope  on  that  Infinitude. 

This  did  not  daunt  me,  then.     Indeed,  I 

saw 
Light     upon     chaos.     Many     discordant 

dreams 

Began  to  move  in  lucid  music  now. 
For  what  could  be  more  baffling  than  the 

thought 
That  those  enormous  heavens  must  circle 

earth 

[26] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Diurnally — a  journey  that  would  need 
Swiftness    to    which    the    lightning    flash 

would  seem 

A  white  slug  creeping  on  the  walls  of  night; 
While,  if  earth  softly  on  her  axle  spun 
One  quiet  revolution  answered  all. 
It  was  our  moving  selves  that  made  the 

sky 

Seem  to  revolve.     Have  not  all  ages  seen 
A  like  illusion  baffling  half  mankind 
In  life,  thought,  art?    Men  think,  at  every 

turn 
Of  their  own  souls,  the  very  heavens  have 

moved. 

Light   upon   chaos,    light,    and   yet   more 

light; 
For — as    I    watched    the    planets — Venus, 

Mars, 
Appeared  to  wax  and  wane  from  month  to 

month 
As  though  they  moved,  now  near,  now  far, 

from  earth. 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Earth  could  not  be  their  centre.     Was  the 

sun 

Their  sovran  lord  then,  as  Pythagoras  held? 
Was   this   great   earth,    so    'stablished,    so 

secure, 

A  planet  also?     Did  it  also  move 
Around  the  sun?     If  this  were  true,  my 

friends, 

No  revolution  in  this  world's  affairs, 
Not  that  blind  maelstrom  where  imperial 

Rome 

Went  down  into  the  dark,  could  so  engulf 
All  that  we  thought  we  knew.    We  who 

believed 
In  our  own  majesty,  we  who  walked  with 

gods 

As  younger  sons  on  this  proud  central  stage, 
Round  which  the  whole  bright  firmament 

revolved 

For  our  especial  glory,  must  we  creep 
Like  ants  upon  our  midget  ball  of  dust 
Lost  in  immensity? 

I  could  not  take 
[28] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

That    darkness    lightly.     I    withheld    my 

book 

For  many  a  year,  until  I  clearly  saw, 
And  Rome  approved  me — have  they  not 

brought  it  yet? — 
That    this    tremendous    music    could    not 

drown 

The  still  supernal  music  of  the  soul, 
Or  quench  the  light  that  shone  when  Christ 

was  born. 
For  who,  if  one  lost  star  could  lead  the 

kings 
To  God's   own   Son,   would   shrink   from 

following  these 
To  His  eternal  throne? 

This  at  the  least 
We  know,  the  soul  of  man  can  soar  through 

heaven. 
It  is  our  own  wild  wings  that  dwarf  the 

world 

To  nothingness  beneath  us.     Let  the  soul 
Take  courage,  then.     If  its  own  thought  be 

true, 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Not  all  the  immensities  of  little  minds 
Can  ever  quench  its  own  celestial  fire. 

No.     This  new  night  was  needed,  that  the 

soul 

Might  conquer  its  own  kingdom  and  arise 
To  its  full  stature.     So,  in  face  of  death, 
I  saw  that  I  must  speak  the  truth  I  knew. 

Have  they  not  brought  it?    What  delays 

my  book? 

I  am  afraid.     Tell  me  the  truth,  my  friends. 
At  this   last  hour,   the   Church   may  yet 

withhold 
Her  sanction.     Not  the  Church,  but  those 

who  think 
A  little  darkness  helps  her. 

Were  this  true, 
They  would  do  well.     If  the  poor  light  we 

win 

Confuse  or  blind  us,  to  the  Light  of  lights, 
Let  all  our  wisdom  perish.     I  affirm 
[30] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

A  greater  Darkness,  where  the  one  true 
Church 

Shall  after  all  her  agonies  of  loss 

And  many  an  age  of  doubt,  perhaps,  to 
come, 

See   this   processional  host  of   splendours 
burn 

Like  tapers  round  her  altar. 

So  I  speak 

Not  for  myself,  but  for  the  age  unborn. 

I  caught  the  fire  from  those  who  went  be- 
fore, 

The  bearers  of  the  torch  who  could  not  see 

The  goal  to  which  they  strained.     I  caught 
their  fire, 

And  carried  it,  only  a  little  way  beyond ; 

But  there  are  those  that  wait  for  it,  I  know, 

Those  who  will  carry  it  on  to  victory. 

I  dare  not  fail  them.     Looking  back,  I  see 

Those  others, — fallen,  with  their  arms  out- 
stretched 

Dead,  pointing  to  the  future. 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Far,  far  back, 

Before  the  Egyptians  built  their  pyramids 
With  those  dark  funnels  pointing  to  the 

north, 
Through  which  the  Pharaohs  from  their 

desert  tombs 

Gaze  all  night  long  upon  the  Polar  Star, 
Some  wandering  Arab  crept  from  death  to 

life 
Led  by  the  Plough  across  those  wastes  of 

pearl.  .  .  . 

Long,  long  ago — have  they  not  bi ought  it 

yet? 
My   book? — I    finished    it   one    summer's 

night, 

And  felt  my  blood  all  beating  into  song. 
I  meant  to  print  those  verses  in  my  book, 
A  prelude,  hinting  at  that  deeper  night 
Which  darkens  all  our  knowledge.     Then 

I  thought 
The  measure  moved  too  lightly. 

Do  you  recall 

[32] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Those  verses,  Elsa?    They  would  pass  the 

time. 
How  happy  I  was  the  night  I  wrote  that 

song!" 

Then,  one  of  those  bowed  shadows  raised 

her  head 

And,  like  a  mother  crooning  to  her  child, 
Murmured  the  words  he  wrote,  so  long  ago. 

In  old  Cathay,  in  far  Cathay, 

Before  the  western  world  began, 
They  saw  the  moving  fount  of  day 

Eclipsed,  as  by  a  shadowy  fan ; 
They  stood  upon  their  Chinese  wall. 

They  saw  his  fire  to  ashes  fade, 
And  felt  the  deeper  slumber  fall 

On  domes  of  pearl  and  towers  of  jade. 

With  slim  brown  hands,  in  Araby, 
They  traced,  upon  the  desert  sand, 

Their  Rams  and  Scorpions  of  the  sky, 
And  strove — and  failed — to  understand. 

[33] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Before  their  footprints  were  effaced 
The  shifting  sand  forgot  their  rune; 

Their  hieroglyphs  were  all  erased, 
Their  desert  naked  to  the  moon. 

In  Bagdad  of  the  purple  nights, 

Haroun  Al  Raschid  built  a  tower, 
Where  sages  watched  a  thousand  lights 

And  read  their  legends,  for  an  hour. 
The  tower  is  down,  the  Caliph  dead, 

Their  astrolabes  are  wrecked  with  rust. 
Orion  glitters  overhead, 

Aladdin's  lamp  is  in  the  dust 

In  Babylon,  in  Babylon, 

They  baked  their  tablets  of  the  clay; 
And,  year  by  year,  inscribed  thereon 

The  dark  eclipses  of  their  day; 
They  saw  the  moving  finger  write 

Its  Mene,  Mene,  on  their  sun. 
A  mightier  shadow  cloaks  their  light, 

And  clay  is  clay  in  Babylon. 
[34] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

A  shadow  moved  towards  him  from  the 
door. 

Copernicus,  with  a  cry,  upraised  his  head. 

"The  book,  I  cannot  see  it,  let  me  feel 

The  lettering  on  the  cover. 

It  is  here! 

Put  out  the  lamp,  now.     Draw  those  cur- 
tains back, 

And  let  me  die  with  starlight  on  my  face. 

An  angel's  hand  in  mine  .  .  .  yes;  I  can 
say 

My  nunc  dimittis  now  .  .  .  light,  and  more 
light 

In  that  pure  realm  whose  darkness  is  our 
peace." 


[35] 


T 


II 

TYCHO  BRAHE 


HEY  thought  him  a  magician,  Tycho 
Brahe, 
Who  lived  on  that  strange  island  in  the 

Sound, 
Nine  miles  from  Elsinore. 

His  legend  reached 

The  Mermaid  Inn  the  year  that  Shake- 
speare died. 
Fynes  Moryson  had  brought  his  travellers' 

tales 
Of  Wheen,   the   heart-shaped   isle   where 

Tycho  made 

His  great  discoveries,  and,  with  Jeppe,  his 
dwarf, 

[36] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And  flaxen-haired   Christine,   the  peasant 

girl, 
Dreamed  his  great  dreams   for  five-and- 

twenty  years. 
For    there    he    lit    that    lanthorn    of    the 

law, 

Uraniborg;  that  fortress  of  the  truth, 
With    Pegasus    flying    above    its    loftiest 

tower, 
While,  in  its  roofs,  like  wide  enchanted 

eyes 
Watching,   the  brightest  windows   in   the 

world, 
Opened  upon  the  stars. 

Nine  miles  from  Elsinore,  with  all  those 
ghosts, 

There's  magic  enough  in  that!  But  white- 
cliffed  Wheen, 

Six  miles  in  girth,  with  crowds  of  hunch- 
back waves 

Crawling  all  round  it,  and  those  moon- 
struck windows, 

[37] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Held  its  own  magic,  too;  for  Tycho  Brahe 
By  his  mysterious  alchemy  of  dreams 
Had  so  enriched  the  soil,  that  when  the 

king 
Of   England  wished  to  buy  it,   Denmark 

asked 

A  price  too  great  for  any  king  on  earth. 
"Give  us,"  they  said,  "in  scarlet  cardinal's 

cloth 

Enough  to  cover  it,  and,  at  every  corner, 
Of  every  piece,  a  right  rose-noble  too ; 
Then  all  that  kings  can  buy  of  Wheen  is 

yours. 
Only,"  said  they,  "a  merchant  bought  it 

once; 
And,  when  he  came  to  claim  it,  goblins 

flocked 
All    round    him,    from    its    forty    goblin 

farms, 
And  mocked  him,  bidding  him  take  away 

the  stones 
That  he  had  bought,  for  nothing  else  was 

his." 

[38] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

These  things  were  fables.    They  were  also 

true. 

They  thought  him  a  magician,  Tycho  Brahe, 
The  astrologer,  who  wore  the  mask  of  gold. 
Perhaps  he  was.  There's  magic  in  the 

truth ; 

And  only  those  who  find  and  follow  its  laws 
Can  work  its  miracles. 

Tycho  sought  the  truth 
From  that  strange  year  in  boyhood  when  he 

heard 

The  great  eclipse  foretold ;  and,  on  the  day 
Appointed,  at  the  very  minute  even, 
Beheld  the  weirdly  punctual  shadow  creep 
Across  the  sun,  bewildering  all  the  birds 
With  thoughts  of  evening. 

Picture  him,  on  that  day, 
The  boy  at  Copenhagen,  with  his  mane 
Of  thick  red  hair,  thrusting  his  freckled 

face 

Out  of  his  upper  window,  holding  the  piece 
Of  glass  he  blackened  above  his  candle- 
flame 

[39] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

To  watch  that  orange  ember  in  the  sky 
Wane  into  smouldering  ash. 

He  whispered  there, 

"So  it  is  true.     By  searching  in  the  heavens, 
Men  can  foretell  the  future." 

In  the  street 
Below  him,  throngs  were  babbling  of  the 

plague 
That  might  or  might  not  follow. 

He  resolved 
To  make  himself  the  master  of  that  deep 

art 
And  know  what  might  be  known. 

He  bought  the  books 
Of  Stadius,  with  his  tables  of  the  stars. 
Night  after  night,  among  the  gabled  roofs, 
Climbing  and  creeping  through  a  world 

unknown 
Save  to  the  roosting  stork,  he  learned  to 

find 

The  constellations,  Cassiopeia's  throne, 
The  Plough  still  pointing  to  the  Polar  Star, 
The  sword-belt  of  Orion.  There  he  watched 

[40] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

The  movements  of  the  planets,  hours  on 

hours, 
And  wondered  at  the  mystery  of  it  all. 

All  this  he  did  in  secret,  for  his  birth 
Was  noble,  and  such  wonderings  were  a 

sign 
Of   low   estate,   when   Tycho    Brahe   was 

young; 
And   all   his   kinsmen   hoped   that   Tycho 

Brahe 

Would  live,  serene  as  they,  among  his  dogs 
And  horses;  or,  if  honour  must  be  won, 
Let  the  superfluous  glory  flow  from  fields 
Where  blood  might  still  be  shed ;  or  from 

those  courts 
Where  statesmen  lie.     But  Tycho  sought 

the  truth. 

So,  when  they  sent  him  in  his  tutor's  charge 
To  Leipzig,  for  such  studies  as  they  held 
More  worthy   of   his   princely   blood,   he 

searched 

The  Almagest;  and,  while  his  tutor  slept, 
Measured  the  delicate  angles  of  the  stars, 
[41] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Out  of  his  window,  with  his  compasses, 
His  only  instrument.     Even  with  this  rude 

aid 

He  found  so  many  an  ancient  record  wrong 
That  more  and  more  he  burned  to  find  the 

truth. 

One  night  at  home,  as  Tycho  searched  the 

sky, 

Out  of  his  window,  compasses  in  hand, 
Fixing  one  point  upon  a  planet,  one 
Upon  some  loftier  star,  a  ripple  of  laughter 
Startled  him,  from  the  garden  walk  below. 
He  lowered  his  compass,  peered  into  the 

dark 
And  saw — Christine,  the  blue-eyed  peasant 

girl, 
With  bare  brown  feet,  standing  among  the 

flowers. 

She   held   what  seemed   an   apple   in   her 

hand; 
And,  in  a  voice  that  Aprilled  all  his  blood, 

[42] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

The  low  soft  voice  of  earth,  drawing  him 
down 

From  those  cold  heights  to  that  warm  breast 
of  Spring, 

A  natural  voice  that  had  not  learned  to 
use 

The  false  tones  of  the  world,  simple  and 
clear 

As  a  bird's  voice,  out  of  the  fragrant  dark- 
ness called, 

"I  saw  it  falling  from  your  window-ledge! 

I  thought  it  was  an  apple,  till  it  rolled 

Over  my  foot. 

It's  heavy.     Shall  I  try 

To  throw  it  back  to  you?" 

Tycho  saw  a  stain 

Of  purple  across  one  small  arched  glisten- 
ing foot. 

"Your  foot  is  bruised,"  he  cried. 

"O  no,"  she  laughed, 

And  plucked  the  stain  off.     "Only  a  petal, 


see." 


She  showed  it  to  him. 

[43] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

"But  this — I  wonder  now 
If  I  can  throw  it." 

Twice  she  tried  and  failed; 
Or  Tycho   failed   to   catch    that   slippery 

sphere. 

He  saw  the  supple  body  swaying  below, 
The  ripe  red  lips  that  parted  as  she  laughed, 
And  those  deep  eyes  where  all  the  stars 
were  drowned. 

At  the  third  time  he  caught  it;  and  she 

vanished, 

Waving  her  hand,  a  little  floating  moth, 
Between  the  pine-trees,  into  the  warm  dark 

night. 

He  turned  into  his  room,  and  quickly  thrust 
Under  his  pillow  that  forbidden  fruit; 
For  the  door  opened,  and  the  hot  red  face 
Of  Otto  Brahe,  his  father,  glowered  at  him. 
"What's  this?    What's  this?" 

The  furious-eyed  old  man 
Limped  to  the  bedside,  pulled  the  mystery 

out, 

[44] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And  stared  upon  the  strangest  apple  of  Eve 
That  ever  troubled  Eden, — heavy  as  bronze, 
And  delicately  enchased  with  silver  stars, 
The  small  celestial  globe  that  Tycho  bought 
In  Leipzig. 

Then  the  storm  burst  on  his  head ! 
This    moon  -  struck    'pothecary's  -  prentice 

work, 
These  cheap-jack  calendar-maker's  gypsy 

tricks 
Would  damn  the  mother  of  any  Knutsdorp 

squire, 

And  crown  his  father  like  a  stag  of  ten. 
Quarrel   on   quarrel    followed    from   that 

night, 

Till  Tycho  sickened  of  his  ancient  name; 
And,  wandering  through  the  woods  about 

his  home, 
Found  on  a  hill-top,  ringed  with  fragrant 

pines, 

A  little  open  glade  of  whispering  ferns. 
Thither,  at  night,  he  stole  to  watch  the  stars ; 
And  there  he  told  the  oldest  tale  on  earth 

[45] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

To  one  that  watched  beside  him,  one  whose 

eyes 
Shone  with  true  love,  more  beautiful  than 

the  stars, 
A    daughter    of    earth,    the    peasant-girl, 

Christine. 

They  met  there,  in  the  dusk,  on  his  last 
night 

At  home,  before  he  went  to  Wittenberg. 

They  stood  knee-deep  among  the  whisper- 
ing ferns, 

And  said  good-bye. 

"I  shall  return,"  he  said, 

"And   shame    them   for   their   folly,    who 
would  set 

Their  pride  above  the  stars,  Christine,  and 
you. 

At  Wittenberg  or  Rostoch  I  shall  find 

More  chances  and  more  knowledge.     All 
those  worlds 

Are  still  to  conquer.     We  know  nothing 
yet; 

[46] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

The  books  are  crammed  with  fables.     They 

foretell 

Here  an  eclipse,  and  there  a  dawning  moon, 
But  most  of  them  were  out  a  month  or  more 
On  Jupiter  and  Saturn. 

There's  one  way, 

And  only  one,  to  knowledge  of  the  law 
Whereby  the  stars  are  steered,  and  so  to  read 
The  future,  even  perhaps  the  destinies 
Of  men  and  nations, — only  one  sure  way, 
And  that's  to  watch  them,  watch  them,  and 

record 
The  truth  we  know,  and  not  the  lies  we 

dream. 
Dear,  while  I  watch  them,  though  the  hills 

and  sea 

Divide  us,  every  night  our  eyes  can  meet 
Among  those  constant  glories.  Every  night 
Your  eyes  and  mine,  upraised  to  that  bright 

realm, 

Can,  in  one  moment,  speak  across  the  world. 
I  shall  come  back  with  knowledge  and  with 

power, 

[47] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

And  you — will  wait  for  me?" 

She  answered  him 
In  silence,  with  the  starlight  of  her  eyes. 

II 

He  watched  the  skies  at  Wittenberg.    The 

plague 
Drove  him  to   Rostoch,   and  he  watched 

them  there ; 
But,    even    there,    the    plague    of    little 

minds 

Beset  him.     At  a  wedding-feast  he  met 
His   noble    countryman,    Manderup,   who 

asked, 
With    mocking   courtesy,   whether   Tycho 

Brahe 

Was  ready  yet  to  practise  his  black  art 
At  country  fairs.     The  guests,  and  Tycho, 

laughed ; 
Whereat  the  swaggering  Junker  blandly 

sneered, 
"If    fortune-telling    fail,     Christine    will 

dance, 

[48] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Thus — tambourine  on   hip,"   he   struck   a 

pose. 
"Her  pretty  feet  will  pack  that  booth  of 

yours." 
They  fought,  at  midnight,  in  a  wood,  with 

swords. 

And  not  a  spark  of  light  but  those  that  leapt 
Blue  from  the  clashing  blades.  Tycho  had 

lost 

His  moon  and  stars  awhile,  almost  his  life; 
For,  in  one  furious  bout,  his  enemy's  blade 
Dashed  like  a  scribble  of  lightning  into  the 

face 
Of  Tycho  Brahe,  and  left  him  spluttering 

blood, 

Groping  through  that  dark  wood  with  out- 
stretched hands, 
To  fall  in  a  death-black  swoon. 

They  carried  him  back 
To  Rostoch ;  and  when  Tycho  saw  at  last 
That  mirrored  patch  of  mutilated  flesh, 
Seared  as  by  fire,  between  ,the  frank  blue 

eyes 

[49] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

And  firm  young  mouth  where,  like  a  living 

flower 
Upon   some   stricken  tree,  youth   lingered 

still, 
He'd    but   one   thought,    Christine   would 

shrink  from  him 
In  fear,  or  worse,  in  pity.     An  end  had 

come 
Worse  than  old  age,  to  all  the  glory  of 

youth. 

Urania  would  not  let  her  lover  stray 
Into  a  mortal's  arms.     He  must  remain 
Her  own,  for  ever ;  and  for  ever,  alone. 

Yet,  as  the  days  went  by,  to  face  the  world, 
He  made  himself  a  delicate  mask  of  gold 
And  silver,  shaped  like  those  that  minstrels 

wear 

At  carnival  in  Venice,  or  when  love, 
Disguising  its  disguise  of  mortal  flesh, 
Wooes  as  a  nameless  prince  from  far  away. 
And  when  this  world's  day,  with  its  blaze 

and  coil 

[50] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Was  ended,  and  the  first  white  star  awoke 
In  that  pure  realm  where  all  our  tumults 

die, 

His  eyes  and  hers,  meeting  on  Hesperus, 
Renewed  their  troth. 

He  seemed  to  see  Christine, 
Ringed  by  the  pine-trees  on  that  distant  hill, 
A  small  white  figure,  lost  in  space  and  time, 
Yet  gazing  at  the  sky,  and  conquering  all, 
Height,  depth,  and  heaven  itself,  by  the 

sheer  power 

Of  love  at  one  with  everlasting  laws, 
A  love  that  shared  the  constancy  of  heaven, 
And  spoke  to  him  across,  above,  the  world. 

Ill 

Not  till  he  crossed  the  Danube  did  he  find 
Among  the  fountains  and  the  storied  eaves 
Of  Augsburg,  one  to  share  his  task  with 

him. 

Paul  Hainzel,  of  that  city,  greatly  loved 
To  talk  with  Tycho  of  the  strange  new 

dreams 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Copernicus  had  kindled.     Did  this  earth 
Move?    Was   the   sun   the   centre   of   our 

scheme? 

And  Tycho  told  him,  there  is  but  one  way 
To  know  the  truth,   and   that's   to  sweep 

aside 

All  the  dark  cobwebs  of  old  sophistry, 
And  watch  and  learn  that  moving  alphabet, 
Each  smallest  silver  character  inscribed 
Upon   the   skies   themselves,    noting   them 

down, 

Till  on  a  day  we  find  them  taking  shape 
In  phrases,  with  a  meaning;  and,  at  last, 
The  hard-won  beauty  of  that  celestial  book 
With  all  its  epic  harmonies  unfold 
Like  some  great  poet's  universal  song. 

He  was  a  great  magician,  Tycho  Brahe. 
"Hainzel,"   he   said,   "we  have  no   magic 

wand, 

But  what  the  truth  can  give  us.     If  we  find 
Even  with  a  compass,  through  a  bedroom 

window, 

[52] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

That  half  the  glittering  Almagest  is  wrong, 
Think  you,  what  noble  conquests  might  be 

ours, 
Had  we  but  nobler  instruments." 

He  showed 
Quivering  with   eagerness,   his   first   rude 

plan 
For  that  great  quadrant, — not  the  wooden 

toy 

Of  old  Scultetus,  but  a  kingly  weapon, 
Huge  as  a  Roman  battering-ram,  and  fine 
In  its  divisions  as  any  goldsmith's  work. 
"It  could  be  built,"  said  Tycho,  "but  the 

cost 
Would    buy   a   dozen   culverin   for   your 

wars." 
Then  Hainzel,  fired  by  Tycho's  burning 

brain, 
Answered,  "We'll  make  it.    We've  a  war 

to  wage 

On  Chaos,  and  his  kingdoms  of  the  night." 
They  chose  the  cunningest  artists  of  the 

town, 

[53] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Clock-makers,    jewellers,    carpenters,    and 

smiths, 
And,  setting  them  all  afire  with  Tycho's 

dream, 
Within  a  month  his  dream  was  oak  and 

brass. 

Its  beams  were  fourteen  cubits,  solid  oak, 
Banded  with  iron.     Its  arch  was  polished 

brass 

Whereon  five  thousand  exquisite  divisions 
Were    marked    to    show    the    minutes    of 

degrees. 

So   huge   and   heavy   it  was,    a   score   of 

men, 

Could  hardly  drag  and  fix  it  to  its  place 
In  Hainzel's  garden. 

Many  a  shining  night, 
Tycho  and  Hainzel,  out  of  that  maze  of 

flowers, 
Charted    the   stars,    discovering   point   by 

point, 

[54] 


How  all  the  records  erred,  until  the  fame 
Of   this  new  master,   hovering   above   the 

schools 

Like  a  strange  hawk,  threatened  the  creep- 
ing dreams 

Of  all  the  Aristotelians,  and  began 
To  set  their  mouse-holes  twittering  "Tycho 
Brahe!" 

Then  Tycho   Brahe  came   home,   to   find 

Christine. 
Up  to  that  whispering  glade  of  ferns  he 

sped, 
At  the  first  wink  of  Hesperus. 

He  stood 

In  shadow,  under  the  darkest  pine,  to  hide 
The  little  golden  mask  upon  his  face. 
He  wondered,  will  she  shrink  from  me  in 

fear 

Or  loathing?  Will  she  even  come  at  all? 
And,  as  he  wondered,  like  a  light  she  moved 
Before  him. 

[55] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

"Is  it  you?"- 

"Christine!     Christine," 
He  whispered,  "It  is  I,  the  mountebank, 
Playing  a  jest  upon  you.     It's  only  a  mask! 
Do  not  be  frightened.     I  am  here  behind 
it." 

Her   red   lips  parted,   and   between   them 

shone, 
The   little   teeth   like   white   pomegranate 

seeds. 
He  saw  her  frightened  eyes. 

Then,  with  a  cry, 
Her  arms  went  round  him,  and  her  eyelids 

closed. 

Lying  against  his  heart,  she  set  her  lips 
Against  his  lips,  and  claimed  him  for  her 

own. 

IV 

One  frosty  night,  as  Tycho  bent  his  way 
Home  to  the  dark  old  abbey,  he  upraised 
His  eyes,  and  saw  a  portent  in  the  sky. 
[56] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

There,  in  its  most  familiar  patch  of  blue, 
Where  Cassiopeia's  five-fold  glory  burned, 
An  unknown  brilliance  quivered,   a  huge 

star 

Unseen  before,  a  strange  new  visitant 
To  heavens  unchangeable,  as  the  world  be- 
lieved, 
Since  the  creation. 

Could  new  stars  be  born? 
Night  after  night  he  watched  that  miracle 
Growing  and  changing  colour  as  it  grew; 
White  at  the  first,  and  large  as  Jupiter; 
And,  in  the  third  month,  yellow,  and  larger 

yet; 

Red  in  the  fifth  month,  like  Aldebaran, 
And  larger  even  than  Lyra.     In  the  seventh, 
Bluish  like  Saturn;  whence  it  dulled  and 

dwined 

Little  by  little,  till  after  eight  months  more 
Into  the  dark  abysmal  blue  of  night, 
Whence  it  arose,  the  wonder  died  away. 
But,   while   it  blazed   above   him,   Tycho 

brought 

[57] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Those    delicate    records    of    two    hundred 

nights 
To    Copenhagen.     There,    in    his    golden 

mask, 

At  supper  with  Pratensis,  who  believed 
Only  what  old  books  told  him,  Tycho  met 
Dancey,  the  French  Ambassador,  rainbow- 
gay 

In  satin  hose  and  doublet,  supple  and  thin, 
Brown-eyed,  and  bearded  with  a  soft  black 

tuft 
Neat  as  a  blackbird's  wing, — a  spirit  as 

keen 

And  swift  as  France  on  all  the  starry  trails 
Of  thought. 

He  saw  the  deep  and  simple  fire, 
The  mystery  of  all  genius  in  those  eyes 
Above  that  golden  vizard. 

Tycho  raised 
His  wine-cup,  brimming — they  thought — 

with  purple  dreams; 
And  bade  them  drink  to  their  triumphant 

Queen 

[58] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Of  all  the  Muses,  to  their  Lady  of  Light 
Urania,  and  the  great  new  star. 

They  laughed, 
Thinking    the    young    astrologer's    golden 

mask 
Hid  a  sardonic  jest. 

"The  skies  are  clear," 
Said  Tycho  Brahe,  "and  we  have  eyes  to 

see. 
Put  out  your  candles.     Open  those  windows 

there!" 
The  colder  darkness  breathed  upon  their 

brows, 
And  Tycho   pointed,   into   the   deep   blue 

night. 
There,  in  their  most  immutable  height  of 

heaven, 

In  ipso  calo,  in  the  ethereal  realm, 
Beyond  all  planets,  red  as  Mars  it  burned, 
The  one  impossible  glory. 

"But  it's  true!" 
Pratensis  gasped;  then,  clutching  the  first 

straw, 

[59] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

"Now  I  recall  how  Pliny  the  Elder  said, 
Hipparchus  also  saw  a  strange  new  star, 
Not  where  the  comets,  not  where  the  Rosa 

bloom 

And  fade,  but  in  that  solid  crystal  sphere 
Where  nothing  changes." 

Tycho  smiled,  and  showed 
The  record  of  his  watchings. 

"But  the  world 
Must  know  all  this,"  cried  Dancey.     "You 

must  print  it." 
"Print  it?"  said  Tycho,  turning  that  golden 

mask 
On  both  his  friends.     "Could  I,  a  noble, 

print 

This  trafficking  with  Urania  in  a  book? 
They'd  hound  me  out  of  Denmark!     This 

disgrace 
Of  work,  with  hands  or  brain,  no  mattei 

why, 
No   matter    how,    in   one   who   ought    to 

dwell 

[60] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Fixed  to  the  solid  upper  sphere,  my  friends, 
Would  never  be  forgiven." 

Dancey  stared 

In  mute  amazement,  but  that  mask  of  gold 
Outstared  him,  sphinx-like,  and  inscrutable. 

Soon  through  all  Europe,  like  the  blinded 

moths, 

Roused  by  a  lantern  in  old  palaces 
Among     the     mouldering     tapestries     of 

thought, 

Weird  fables  woke  and  fluttered  to  and  fro, 
And  wild-eyed  sages  hunted  them  for  truth, 
The  Italian,  Frangipani,  thought  the  star 
The  lost  Electra,  that  had  left  her  throne 
Among  the  Pleiads,  and  plunged  into  the 

night 
Like  a  veiled  mourner,  when  Troy  town 

was  burned. 
The   German   painter,    Busch,   of   Erfurt, 

wrote, 

"It  was  a  comet,  made  of  mortal  sins; 
[61] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

A  poisonous  mist,  touched  by  the  wrath  of 

God 
To  fire;  from  which  there  would  descend 

on  earth 
All  manner  of  evil — plagues  and  sudden 

death, 
Frenchmen  and  famine." 

Preachers  thumped  and  raved. 
Theodore  Beza  in  Calvin's  pulpit  tore 
His  grim  black  gown,  and  vowed  it  was  the 

Star 

That  led  the  Magi.     It  had  now  returned 
To  mark  the  world's  end  and  the  Judgment 

Day. 

Then,  in  this  hubbub,  Dancey  told  the  king 
Of  Denmark,  "There  is  one  who  knows  the 

truth— 
Your  subject  Tycho  Brahe,  who,  night  by 

night, 
Watched  and  recorded  all  that  truth  could 

see. 

It  would  bring  honour  to  all  Denmark,  sire, 
If  Tycho  could  forget  his  rank  awhile, 
[62] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And  print  these  great  discoveries  in  a  book, 
For  all  the  world  to  read." 

So  Tycho  Brahe 

Received  a  letter  in  the  king's  own  hand, 
Urging  him,  "Truth  is  the  one  pure  foun- 
tain-head 

Of  all  nobility.     Pray  forget  your  rank." 
His  noble  kinsmen  echoed,  "If  you  wish 
To  please  His  Majesty  and  ourselves,  forget 
Your  rank." 

"I  will,"  said  Tycho  Brahe; 
"Your  reasoning  has  convinced  me.     I  will 

print 

My  book,  'De  Nova  Stella.'     And  to  prove 
All   you   have   said   concerning   temporal 

rank 

And  this  eternal  truth  you  love  so  well, 
I   marry,   to-day," — they   foamed,   but   all 

their  mouths 
Were  stopped  and  stuffed  and  sealed  with 

their  own  words, — 
"I  marry  to-day  my  own  true  love,  Chris- 


tine." 


[63] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 


They    thought    him    a    magician,    Tycho 

Brahe. 
Perhaps  he  was.     There's  magic  all  aiound 

us 

In  rocks  and  trees,  and  in  the  minds  of  men, 
Deep  hidden  springs  of  magic. 

He  that  strikes 
The  rock  aright,  may  find  them  where  he 

will. 

And  Tycho  tasted  happiness  in  his  hour. 
There  was  a  prince  in  Denmark  in  those 

days; 
And,    when    he    heard    how    other    kings 

desired 

The  secrets  of  this  new  astrology, 
He  said,  "This  man,  in  after  years,  will 

bring 

Glory  to  Denmark,  honour  to  her  prince. 
He    is    a    Dane.     Give  him    this    isle    of 

Wheen, 

[64] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And   let  him  make   his  great  discoveries 

there. 

Let  him  have  gold  to  buy  his  instruments, 
And  build  his  house  and  his  observatory." 

So  Tycho  set  this  island  where  he  lived 
Whispering    with    wizardry;    and,    in    its 

heart, 

He  lighted  that  strange  lanthorn  of  the  law, 
And  built  himself  that  wonder  of  the  world, 
Uraniborg,  a  fortress  for  the  truth, 
A  city  of  the  heavens. 

Around  it  ran 

A  mighty  rampart  twenty-two  feet  high, 
And  twenty  feet  in  thickness  at  the  base. 
Its  angles  pointed  north,  south,  east  and 

west, 

With  gates  and  turrets ;  and,  within  this  wall, 
Were  fruitful  orchards,  apple,  and  cherry, 

and  pear; 
And,  sheltered  in  their  midst  from  all  but 

sun, 
A  garden,  warm  and  busy  with  singing  bees. 

[6s] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

There,    many   an   hour,   his   flaxen-haired 

Christine, 

Sang  to  her  child,  her  first-born,  Magdalen, 
Or  watched  her  playing,  a  flower  among  the 

flowers. 

Dark  in  the  centre  of  that  zone  of  bliss 
Arose  the  magic  towers  of  Tycho  Brahe. 
Two  of  them  had  great  windows  in  their 

roofs 

Opening  upon  the  sky  where'er  he  willed, 
And  under  these  observatories  he  made 
A  library  of  many  a  golden  book; 
Poets  and  sages  of  old  Greece  and  Rome, 
And  many  a  mellow  legend,  many  a  dream 
Of  dawning  truth  in  Egypt,  or  the  dusk 
Of  Araby.     Under  all  of  these  he  made 
A  subterranean  crypt  for  alchemy, 
With  sixteen  furnaces;  and,  under  this, 
He  sank  a  well,  so  deep,  that  Jeppe  declared 
He  had  tapped  the  central  fountains  of  the 

world, 
And  drew  his  magic  from  those  cold  clear 

springs. 

[66] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

This  was  the  very  well,  said  Jeppe,   the 

dwarf, 
Where  Truth  was  hidden;  but,  by  Tycho 

Brahe 

And  his  weird  skill,  the  magic  water  flowed, 
Through   pipes,   uphill,   to   all   the   house 

above : 
The  kitchen  where  his  cooks  could  broil  a 

trout 

For  sages  or  prepare  a  feast  for  kings; 
The  garrets  for  the  students 'in  the  roof; 
The  guest-rooms,  and  the  red  room  to  the 

north, 

The  study  and  the  blue  room  to  the  south ; 
The  small  octagonal  yellow  room  that  held 
The  sunlight  like  a  jewel  all  day  long, 
And  Magdalen,  with  her  happy  dreams,  at 

night; 
Then,  facing  to  the  west,  one  long  green 

room, 

The  ceiling  painted  like  the  bower  of  Eve 
With  flowers  and  leaves,  the  windows  open- 
ing wide 

[67] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Through  which  Christine  and  Tycho  Brahe 

at  dawn 
Could  see  the  white  sails  drifting  on  the 

Sound 
Like  petals  from  their  orchard. 

To  the  north, 

He  built  a  printing  house  for  noble  books, 
Poems,  and  those  deep  legends  of  the  sky, 
Still  to  be  born  at  his  Uraniborg. 
Beyond  the  rampart  to  the  north  arose 
A  workshop  for  his  instruments.     To  the 

south 
A  low  thatched  farm-house  rambled  round 

a  yard 

Alive  with  clucking  hens;  and,  further  yet 
To  southward  on  another  hill,  he  made 
A  great  house  for  his  larger  instruments, 
And  called  it  Stiernborg,  mountain  of  the 

stars. 

And,  on  his  towers  and  turrets,  Tycho  set 
Statues  with  golden  verses  in  the  praise 
[68] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Of  famous  men,  the  bearers  of  the  torch, 
From  Ptolemy  to  the  new  Copernicus. 
Then,  in  that  storm-proof  mountain  of  the 

stars, 
He  set  in  all  their  splendour  of  new-made 

brass 

His  armouries  for  the  assault  of  heaven, — 
Circles  in  azimuth,  armillary  spheres, 
Revolving  zodiacs  with  great  brazen  rings-; 
Quadrants  of  solid-  brass,  ten  cubits  broad, 
Brass  parallactic  rules,  made  to  revolve 
In  azimuth;  clocks  with  wheels;  an  astro- 
labe; 
And  that  large  globe  strengthened  by  oaken 

beams 
He  made  at  Augsburg. 

All  his  gold  he  spent; 
But  Denmark  had  a  prince  in  those  great 

% 

days; 
And,  in  his  brain,  the  dreams  of  Tycho 

Brahe 

Kindled  a  thirst  for  glory.     So  he  made 
[69] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Tycho  the  Lord  of  sundry  lands  and  rents, 
And  Keeper  of  the  Chapel  where  the  kings 
Of  Oldenburg  were  buried;  for  he  said 
"To  whom  could   all   these  kings  entrust 

their  bones 

More  fitly  than  to  him  who  read  the  stars, 
And  though  a  mortal,  knew  immortal  laws; 
And  paced,  at  night,  the  silent  halls  of 

heaven." 

VI 

He  was  a  great  magician,  Tycho  Brahe. 
There,  on  his  island,  for  a  score  of  years, 
He  watched  the  skies,   recording  star  on 

star, 

For  future  ages,  and,  by  patient  toil, 
Perfected  his  great  tables  of  the  sun, 
The  moon,  the  planets. 

There,  too  happy  far 
For  any  history,  sons  and  daughters  rose, 
A  little  clan  of  love,  around  Christine; 
And  Tycho  thought,  when  I  am  dead,  my 

sons 

[70] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Will  rule  and  work  in  my  Uraniborg. 
And  yet  a  doubt  would  trouble  him,  for  he 

knew 
The  children  of  Christine  would  still  be 

held 
Ignoble,  by  the  world. 

Disciples  came, 
Young-eyed  and  swift,  the  bearers  of  the 

torch 

From  many  a  city  to  Uraniborg, 
And  Tycho   Brahe   received   them   like   a 

king, 
And  bade  them  light  their  torches  at  his 

fire. 
The  King  of  Scotland  came,  with  all  his 

court, 
And  dwelt  eight  days  in  Tycho   Brahe's 

domain, 

Asking  him  many  a  riddle,  deep  and  dark, 
Whose  answer,  none  the  less,  a  king  should 

know. 

What  boots  it  on  this  earth  to  be  a  king, 
To  rule  a  part  of  earth,  and  not  to  know 


THE  TORCH-BEAKERS 

The  worth  of  his  own  realm,  whether  he 

rule 

As  God's  vice-gerent,  and  his  realm  be  still 
The  centre  of  the  centre  of  all  worlds; 
Or  whether,  as  Copernicus  proclaimed, 
This  earth  itself  be  moving,  a  lost  grain 
Of  dust  among  the  innumerable  stars? 
For  this  would  dwarf  all  glory  but  the  soul, 
In  king  or  peasant,  that  can  hail  the  truth, 
Though  truth  should  slay  it. 

So  to  Tycho  Brahe, 

The  king  became  a  subject  for  eight  days. 
But,  in  the  crowded  hall,  when  he  had  gone, 
Jeppe  raised'  his  matted  head,  with  a 

chuckle  of  glee, 

Quiet  as  the  gurgle  of  joy  in  a  dark  rock- 
pool, 
When  the  first  ripple  and  wash  of  the  firs! 

spring-tide 

Flows  bubbling  under  the  dry  sun-black- 
ened fringe 

Of  seaweed,  setting  it  all  afloat  again, 
In  magical  colours,  like  a  merman's  hair. 
[72] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

"Jeppe  has  a  thought,"  the  gay  young  stu- 
dents cried, 

Thronging  him  round,  for  all  believed  that 
Jeppe 

Was  feyj  and  had  strange  visions  of  the 
truth. 

"What  is  the  thought,  Jeppe?" 

"I  can  think  no  thoughts," 

Croaked  Jeppe.     "But  I  have  made  myself 
a  song." 

"Silence,"  they  cried,  "for  Jeppe  the  night- 
ingale! 

Sing,  Jeppe!" 
And,  wagging  his  great  head  to  and  fro 

Before  the  fire,  with  deep  dark  eyes,  he 
crooned : 

THE  SONG  OF  JEPPE 

"What!"  said  the  king, 

"Is  earth  a  bird  or  bee? 
Can  this  uncharted  boundless  realm  of 
ours 

[73] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Drone  thro'  the  sky,  with  leagues  of  strug- 
gling sea, 

Forests,  and  hills,  and  towns,  and  palace- 
towers?" 
"Ay,"  said  the  dwarf, 

"1   have    watched   from   Stiernborg's 

crown 
Her   far   dark    rim   uplift   against   the 

sky; 
But,  while  earth  soars,  men  say  the  stars 

go  down; 
And,  while  earth  sails,  men  say  the  stars 

go  by." 
An  elvish  tale! 

Ask  Jeppe,  the  dwarf!    He  knows. 
That's  why  his  eyes  look  fey ;  for,  chuck- 
ling deep, 

Heels  over  head  amongst  the  stars  he  goes, 
As  all  men  go ;  but  most  are  sound  asleep. 
King,  saint,  sage, 

Even  those  that  count  it  true, 
Act  as  this  miracle  touched  them  not  at 
all. 

[74] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

They  are  borne,  undizzied,  thro'  the  rush- 
ing blue, 

And  build  their  empires  on  a  sky-tossed 
ball. 

Then  said  the  king, 

"If  earth  so  lightly  move, 
What  of  my  realm?    O,  what  shall  now 

stand  sure?" 
"Naught,"   said    the    dwarf,    "in    all    this 

world,  but  love. 

All  else  is  dream-stuff  and  shall  not  en- 
dure. 
'Tis  nearer  now! 

Our  universe  hath  no  centre, 
Our  shadowy  earth  and  fleeting  heavens 

no  stay, 
But  that  deep  inward  realm  which  each 

can  enter, 

Even  Jeppe,  the  dwarf,  by  his  own  secret 
way." 

"Where?"  said  the  king, 
[75] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

"O,  where?     I  have  not  found  it!" 
"Here,"  said  the  dwarf,  and  music  echoed 

"here." 
"This  infinite  circle  hath  no  line  to  bound 

it; 

Therefore   that  deep   strange   centre   is 

everywhere. 
Let  the  earth  soar  thro'  heaven,  that  centre 

abideth; 
Or  plunge  to  the  pit,  His  covenant  still 

holds  true. 
In  the  heart  of  a  dying  bird,  the  Master 

hideth; 
In  the  soul  of  a  king,"  said  the  dwarf, 

"and  in  my  soul,  too." 

VII 

Princes  and  courtiers  came,  a  few  to  seek 
A  little  knowledge,  many  more  to  gape 
In  wonder  at  Tycho's  gold  and  silver  mask; 
Or  when  they  saw  the  beauty  of  his  towers, 
Envy  and  hate  him  for  them. 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Thus  arose 

The  small  grey  cloud  upon  the  distant  sky, 
That  broke  in  storm  at  last. 

"Beware,"  croaked  Jeppe, 
Lifting  his  shaggy  head  beside  the  fire, 
When  guests  like  these  had  gone,  "Master, 

beware!" 
And  Tycho  of  the  frank  blue  eyes  would 

laugh. 
Even  when  he  found  Witichius  playing 

him  false 

His  anger,  like  a  momentary  breeze, 
Died  on  the  dreaming  deep;   for  Tycho 

Brahe 
Turned  to  a  nobler  riddle, — "Have  you 

thought," 

He  asked  his  young  disciples,  "how  the  sea 
Is  moved  to  that  strange  rhythm  we  call 

the  tides? 
He  that  can  answer  this  shall  have  his 

name 

Honoured  among  the  bearers  of  the  torch 
While  Pegasus  flies  above  Uraniborg. 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

I  was  delayed  three  hours  or  more  to-day 
By  the  neap-tide.     The  fishermen  on  the 

coast 

Are  never  wrong.  They  time  it  by  the  moon. 
Post  hoc,  perhaps,  not  propter  hoc;  and  yet 
Through  all  the  changes  of  the  sky  and  sea 
That  old  white  clock  of  ours  with  the  bat- 
tered face 
Does  seem  infallible. 

There's  a  love-song  too, 
The  sailors  on  the  coast  of  Sweden  sing, 
I  have  often  pondered  it.     Your  courtly 

poets 
Upbraid  the  inconstant  moon.     But  these 

men  know 

The  moon  and  sea  are  lovers,  and  they  move 
In   a  most  constant  measure.     Hear   the 

words 

And  tell  me,  if  you  can,  what  silver  chains 
Bind  them  together."    Then,  in  a  voice  as 

low 
And  rhythmical  as  the  sea,  he  spoke  that 

song: 

[78] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

THE  SHEPHERDESS  OF  THE  SEA 

Reproach  not  yet  our  sails'  delay; 
You  cannot  see  the  shoaling  bay, 
The  banks  of  sand,  the  fretful  bars, 
That  ebb  left  naked  to  the  stars. 
The  sea's  white  shepherdess,  the  moon, 
Shall  lead  us  into  harbour  soon. 

Dear,  when  you  see  her  glory  shine 
Between  your  fragrant  boughs  of  pine, 
Know  there  is  but  one  hour  to  wait 
Before  her  hands  unlock  the  gate, 
And  the  full  flood  of  singing  foam 
Follow  her  lovely  footsteps  home. 

Then  waves  like  flocks  of  silver  sheep 
Come  rustling  inland  from  the  deep, 
And  into  rambling  valleys  press 
Behind  their  heavenly  shepherdess. 
You  cannot  see  them?     Lift  your  eyes 
And  see  their  mistress  in  the  skies. 
She  rises  with  her  silver  bow. 

[79] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

I  feel  the  tide  begin  to  flow; 
And  every  thought  and  hope  and  dream 
Follow  her  call,  and  homeward  stream. 
Borne  on  the  universal  tide, 
The  wanderer  hastens  to  his  bride. 
The  sea's  white  shepherdess,  the  moon, 
Shall  lead  him  into  harbour,  soon. 

VIII 

He  was  a  great  magician,  Tycho  Brahe, 

But  not  so  great  that  he  could  read  the 
heart 

Or  rule  the  hand  of  princes. 

When  his  friend 

King   Frederick  died,   the   young   Prince 
Christian  reigned; 

And,  round  him,  fool  and  knave  made  com- 
mon cause 

Against  the  magic  that  could  pour  their 
gold 

Into  a  gulf  of  stars.    This  Tycho  Brahe 

Had  grown  too  proud.     He  held  them  in 
contempt, 

[so] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

So  they  believed ;  for,  when  he  spoke,  their 

thoughts 

Crept  at  his  feet  like  spaniels.    Junkerdom 
Felt  it  was  foolish,  for  he  towered  above  it, 
And  so  it  hated  him.    Did  he  not  spend 
Gold  that  a  fool  could  spend  as  quickly 

as  he? 
Were  there  not  great  estates  bestowed  upon 

him 
In  wisdom's  name,  that  from  the  dawn  of 

time 

Had  been  the  natural  right  of  Junkerdom? 
And  would  he  not  bequeath  them  to  his 

heirs, 
The    children    of    Christine,    an    unfree 

woman? 
"Why  you,  sire,  even  you,"  they  told  the 

king, 

"He  has  made  a  laughing-stock.  That  horo- 
scope 
He  read  for  you,  the  night  when  you  were 

born, 

Printed,  and  bound  it  in  green  velvet,  too, — 
[81] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Read  it.     The  whole  world  laughs  at  it. 
He  said 

That  Venus  was  the  star  that  ruled  your 
fate, 

And   Venus   would   destroy  you.     Tycho 
Brahe 

Inspired  your  royal  father  with  the  fear 

That  kept  your  youth  so  long  in  leading- 
strings, 

The  fear  that  every  pretty  hedgerow  flower 

Would  be  your  Circe.     So  he  thought  to 
avenge 

Our  mockery  of  this  peasant-girl   Chris- 
tine, 

To  whom,   indeed,  he  plays  the   faithful 
swine, 

Knowing  full  well  his  gold  and  silver  nose 

Would  never  win  another." 

Thus  the  sky 

Darkened  above  Uraniborg,  and  those 

Who  dwelt  within  it,  till  one  evil  day, 

One    seeming    happy  day,    when    Tycho 
marked 

[82] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

The  seven-hundredth  star  upon  his  chart, 
Two  pompous  officers  from  Walchendorp, 
The  chancellor,  knocked  at  Tycho's  eastern 

gate. 
"We  are  sent,"  they  said,  "to  see  and  to 

report 
What   use   you   make   of   these  estates   of 

yours. 

Your  alchemy  has  turned  more  gold  to  lead 
Than   Denmark  can  approve.     The  uses 

now! 

Show  us  the  uses  of  this  work  of  yours." 
Then  Tycho  showed  his  tables  of  the  stars, 
Seven  hundred  stars,  each  noted  in  its  place 
With  exquisite  precision,  the  result 
Of  watchin/g  heaven   for  five-and-twenty 

years. 
"And  is  this  all?"  they  said. 

They  sought  to  invent 
Some  ground  for  damning  him.  The  truth 

alone 
Would  serve  them,  as  it  seemed.    For  these 

were  men 

[83] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Who  could  not  understand. 

"Not  all,  I  hope," 

Said  Tycho,  "for  I  think,  before  I  die, 
I  shall  have  marked  a  thousand." 

"To  what  end? 
When  shall  we  reap  the  fruits  of  all  this 

toil? 
Show  us  its  uses." 

"In  the  time  to  come," 
Said  Tycho  Brahe,   "perhaps  a  hundred 

years, 
Perhaps  a  thousand,  when  our  own  poor 

names 

Are  quite  forgotten,  and  our  kingdoms  dust, 
On  one  sure  certain  day,  the  torch-bearers 
Will,  at  some  point  of  contact,  see  a  light 
Moving  upon  this  chaos.  Though  our  eyes 
Be  shut  for  ever  in  an  iron  sleep, 
Their  eyes  shall  see  the  kingdom  of  the 

law, 
OUT  undiscovered  cosmos.    They  shall  see 

it- 
A  new  creation  rising  from  the  deep, 

[84] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Beautiful,  whole. 

We  are  like  men  that  hear 
Disjointed  notes  of  some  supernal  choir. 
Year  after  year,  we  patiently  record 
All  we  can  gather.    In  that  far-off  time, 
A  people  that  we  have  not  known  shall 

hear  them, 
Moving  like  music  to  a  single  end." 

They  could  not  understand:  this  life  that 

sought 

Only  to  bear  the  torch  and  hand  it  on; 
And  so  they  made  report  that  all  the  dreams 
Of  Tycho  Brahe  were  fruitless;  perilous, 

too, 

Since  he  avowed  that  any  fruit  they  bore 
Would  fall,  in  distant  years,  to  alien  hands. 

Little  by  little,  Walchendorp  withdrew 
His  rents  from  Tycho  Brahe,  accusing  him 
Of  gross  neglects.  The  Chapel  at  Ros- 

kilde 
Was  falling  into  ruin.    Tycho  Brahe 

[85] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Was  Keeper  of  the  Bones  of  Oldenburg. 
He  must  rebuild  the  Chapel.    All  the  gifts 
That  Frederick  gave  to  help  him  in  hi* 

task, 
Were  turned  to  stumbling-blocks;  till,  one 

dark  day, 
He  called  his  young  disciples  round  him 

there, 

And  in  that  mellow  library  of  dreams, 
Lit  by  the  dying  sunset,  poured  his  heart 
And  mind  before  them,  bidding  them  fare- 
well. 
Through    the   wide-open   windows   as   he 

spoke 
They  heard  the  sorrowful  whisper  of  the 

sea 

Ebbing  and  flowing  around  Uraniborg. 
"An  end  has  come,"  he  said,  "to  all  we 

planned. 

Uraniborg  has  drained  her  treasury  dry. 
Your  Alma  Mater  now  must  close  her  gates 
On  you,  her  guests;  on  me;  and,  worst  of 

all, 

[86] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

On  one  most  dear,  who  made  this  place  my 
home. 

For  you  are  young,  your  homes  are  all  to 
win, 

And  you  would  all  have  gone  your  sepa- 
rate ways 

In  a  brief  while;  and,  though  I  think  you 
love 

Your  college  of  the  skies,  it  could  not 
mean 

All  that  it  meant  to  those  who  called  it 
'home.' 

You  that  have  worked  with  me,  for  one 

brief  year, 

Will  never  quite  forget  Uraniborg. 
This   room,   the   sunset   gilding   all   those 

books, 

The  star-charts,  and  that  old  celestial  globe, 
The  long  bright  evenings  by  the  winter  fire, 
Of  Tycho  Brahe  were  fruitless;  perilous 
The  talk  that  opened  heaven,  the  songs 

you  sung, 

[87] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Yes,  even,  I  think,  the  tricks  you  played 
with  Jeppe, 

Will  somehow,  when  yourselves  are  grow- 
ing old, 

Be  hallowed  into  beauty,  touched  with 
tears, 

For  you  will  wish  they  might  be  yours 
again. 

These  have  been  mine  for  five-and-twenty 

years, 
And    more    than    these, — the    work,    the 

dreams  I  shared 
With  you,  and  others  here.     My  heart  will 

break 
To  leave  them.    But  the  appointed  time  has 

come 
As  it  must  come  to  all  men. 

You  and  I 
Have  watched  too  many  constant  stars  to 

dream 

That  heaven  or  earth,  the  destinies  of  men 
[88] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Or  nations,  are  the  sport  of  chance.  An 
end 

Comes  to  us  all  through  blindness,  age,  or 
death. 

If  mine  must  come  in  exile,  it  shall  find  me 

Bearing  the  torch  as  far  as  I  can  bear  it, 

Until  I  fall  at  the  feet  of  the  young  run- 
ner, 

Who  takes  it  from  me,  and  carries  it  out 
of  sight, 

Into  the  great  new  age  I  shall  not  know, 

Into  the  great  new  realms  I  must  not  tread. 

Come,  then,  swift-footed,  let  me  see  you 
stand 

Waiting  before  me,  crowned  with  youth  and 

joy, 

At  the  next  turning.  Take  it  from  my  hand, 
For  I  am  almost  ready  now  to  fall. 

Something  I  have  achieved,  yes,  though  I 

say  it, 

I  have  not  loitered  on  that  fiery  way. 
[89] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

And  if  I  front  the  judgment  of  the  wise 
In  centuries  to  come,  with  more  of  dread 
Than  my  destroyers,  it  is  because  this  work 
Will  be  of  use,  remembered  and  appraised, 
When  all  their  hate  is  dead. 

I  say  the  work, 
Not  the  blind  rumour,  the  glory  or  fame  of 

it. 

These  observations  of  seven  hundred  stars 
Are  little  enough  in  sight  of  those  great 

hosts 
Which  nightly  wheel  around  us,  though  I 

hope, 
Yes,  I  still  hope,  in  some  more  generous 

land 

To  make  my  thousand  up  before  I  die. 
Little  enough,  I  know, — a  midget's  work! 
The  men  that  follow  me,  with  more  delicate 

art 
May  add  their  tens  of  thousands;  yet  my 

sum 
Will  save  them  just  that  five-and-twenty 

years 

[90] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Of  patience,  bring  them  sooner  to  their 

goal, 

That  kingdom  of  the  law  I  shall  not  see. 
We  are  on  the  verge  of  great  discoveries. 
I  feel  them  as  a  dreamer  feels  the  dawn 
Before  his  eyes  are  opened.     Many  of  you 
Will  see  them.    In  that  day  you  will  recall 
This,  our  last  meeting  at  Uraniborg, 
And  how  I  told  you  that  this  work  of  ours 
Would  lead  to  victories  for  the  coming  age. 
The  victors  may  forget  us.    What  of  ihat? 
Theirs  be  the  palms,  the  shouting,  and  the 

praise. 

Ours  be  the  fathers'  glory  in  the  sons. 
Ours  the  delight  of  giving,  the  deep  joy 
Of  labouring,  on  the  cliffs  face,  all  night 

long, 

Cutting  them  foot-holes  in  the  solid  rock, 
Whereby  they  climb  so  gaily  to  the  heights, 
And  gaze  upon  their  new-discovered 

worlds. 
You  will  not  find  me  there.     When  you 

descend, 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Look  for  me  in  the  darkness  at  the  foot 
Of  those  high  cliffs,  under  the  drifted 

leaves. 

That's  where  we  hide  at  last,  we  pioneers, 
For  we  are  very  proud,  and  must  be  sought 
Before  the  world  can  find  us,  in  our  graves. 
There  have  been  compensations.  I  have 

seen 

In  darkness,  more  perhaps  than  eyes  can  see 
When  sunlight  blinds  them  on  the  moun- 
tain-tops; 

Guessed  at  a  glory  past  our  mortal  range, 
And  only  mine  because  the  night  was  mine. 

Of  those  three  systems  of  the  universe, 
The  Ptolemaic,  held  by  all  the  schools, 
May  yet  be  proven  false.     We  yet  may  find 
This  earth  of  ours  is  not  the  sovran  lord 
Of  all  those  wheeling  spheres.     Ourselves 

have  marked 

Movements  among  the  planets  that  forbid 
Acceptance  of  it  wholly.    Some  of  these 
Are  moving  round  the  sun,  if  we  can  trust 

[93] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Our  years  of  watching.    There  are  stranger 

dreams. 

This  radical,  Copernicus,  the  priest, 
Of  whom  I  often  talked  with  you,  declares 
All  of  these  movements  can  be  reconciled, 
If — a  hypothesis  only — we  should  take 
The  sun  itself  for  centre,  and  assume 
That  this  huge  earth,  so  'stablished,  so  se- 
cure 

In  its  foundations,  is  a  planet  also, 
And  moves  around  the  sun. 

I  cannot  think  it. 
This  leap  of  thought  is  yet  too  great  for 

me. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  Ptolemy  was  wrong. 
Some  of  his  planets  move  around  the  sun. 
Copernicus  is  nearer  to  the  truth 
In  some  things.     But  the  planets  we  have 

watched 

Still  wander  from  the  course  that  he  as- 
signed. 

Therefore,  my  system,  which  includes  the 
best 

[93] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Of  both,  I  hold  may  yet  be  proven  true. 

This  earth  of  ours,  as  Jeppe  declared  one 
day, 

So  simply  that  we  laughed,  is  'much  too  big 

To  move,'  so  let  it  be  the  centre  still, 

And  let  the  planets  move  around  their  sun; 

But  let  the  sun  with  all  its  planets  move 

Around  our  central  earth. 

This  at  the  least 

Accords  with  all  we  know,  and  saves  man- 
kind 

From  that  enormous  plunge  into  the  night; 

Saves  them  from  voyaging  for  ten  thousand 
years 

Through  boundless  darkness  without  sight 
of  land; 

Saves  them  from  all  that  agony  of  loss, 

As  one  by  one  the  beacon-fires  of  faith 

Are  drowned  in  blackness. 

I  beseech  you,  then, 

Let  me  be  proven  wrong,  before  you  take 

That  darkness  lightly.     If  at  last  you  find 
[94] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

The    proven    facts    against    me,  take    the 

plunge. 
Launch  out  into  that  darkness.     Let  the 

lamps 
Of  heaven,  the  glowing  hearth-fires  that 

we  knew 
Die  out  behind  you,  while  the  freshening 

wind 

Blows  on  your  brows,  and  overhead  you  see 
The  stars  of  truth  that  lead  you  from  your 

home. 

I  love  this  island, — every  little  glen, 
Hazel-wood,  brook,  and  fish-pond;  every 

bough 

And  blossom  in  that  garden;  and  I  hoped 
To  die  here.  But  it  is  not  chance,  I  know, 
That  sends  me  wandering  through  the 

world  again. 

My  use  perhaps  is  ended;  and  the  power 
That  made  me,  breaks  me." 

As  he  spoke,  they  saw 
[95] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

The  tears  upon  his  face.     He  bowed  his 

head 

And  left  them  silent  in  the  darkened  room. 
They  saw  his  face  no  more. 

The  self-same  hour, 
Tycho,  Christine,  and  all  their  children, 

left 

Their  island-home  for  ever.  In  their  ship 
They  took  a  few  of  the  smaller  instruments, 
And  that  most  precious  record  of  the  stars, 
His  legacy  to  the  future.  Into  the  night 
They  vanished,  leaving  on  the  ghostly  cliffs 
Only  one  dark,  distorted,  dog-like  shape 
To  watch  them,  sobbing,  under  its  matted 

hair, 
"Master,  have  you  forgotten  Jeppe,  your 

dwarf?" 

IX 

He  was  a  great  magician,  Tycho  Brahe, 
And  yet  his  magic,  under  changing  skies, 
Could  never  change  his  heart,  or  touch  the 
hills 

[96] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Of  those  far  countries  with  the  tints  of 

home. 

And,  after  many  a  month  of  wandering, 
He  came  to  Prague ;  and,  though  with  open 

hands 

Rodolphe  received  him,  like  an  exiled  king, 
A  new  jEneas,  exiled  for  the  truth 
(For  so  they  called  him),  none  could  heal 

the  wounds 

That  bled  within,  or  lull  his  grief  to  sleep 
With  that  familiar  whisper  of  the  waves, 
Ebbing  and  flowing  around  Uraniborg. 

Doggedly  still  he  laboured ;  point  by  point, 
Crept  on,  with  aching  heart  and  burning 

brain, 

Until  his  table  of  the  stars  had  reached 
The  thousand  that  he  hoped,  to  crown  his 

toil. 
But  Christine  heard  him  murmuring  in  the 

night, 
"The  work,  the  work!    Not  to  have  lived 

in  vain! 

[97] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Into  whose  hands  can  I  entrust  it  all? 

I  thought  to  find  him  standing  by  the  way, 

Waiting  to  seize  the  splendour  from  my 

hand, 
The    swift,   young-eyed    runner   with    the 

torch. 

Let  me  not  live  in  vain,  let  me  not  fall 
Before  I  yield  it  to  the  appointed  soul." 
And  yet  the  Power  that  made  and  broke 

him  heard : 

For,  on  a  certain  day,  to  Tycho  came 
Another  exile,  guided  through  the  dark 
Of  Europe  by  the  starlight  in  his  eyes, 
Or  that  invisible  hand  which  guides  the 

world. 

He  asked  him,  as  the  runner  with  the  torch 
Alone  could  ask,  asked  as  a  natural  right 
For  Tycho's  hard-won  life-work,  those  re- 
sults, 

His  tables  of  the  stars.    He  gave  his  name 
Almost  as  one  who  told  him,  It  is  I; 
And  yet  unconscious  that  he  told ;  a  name 
[98] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Not  famous  yet,  though  truth  had  marked 

him  out 

Already,  by  his  exile,  as  her  own, — 
The  name  of  Johann  Kepler. 

"It  was  strange," 

Wrote  Kepler,  not  long  after,  "for  I  asked 
Unheard-of  things,  and  yet  he  gave  them  to 

me 

As  if  I  were  his  son.    When  first  I  saw  him, 
We  seemed  to  have  known  each  other  years 

ago 

In  some  forgotten  world.    I  could  not  guess 
That  Tycho   Brahe  was  dying.     He  was 

quick 
Of  temper,   and  we  quarrelled   now  and 

then, 

Only  to  find  ourselves  more  closely  bound 
Than  ever.    I  believe  that  Tycho  died 
Simply  of  heartache  for  his  native  land. 
For   though   he    always   met   me   with   a 

smile, 
Or  jest  upon  his  lips,  he  could  not  sleep 

[99] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Or  work,  and  often  unawares  I  caught 
Odd  little  whispered  phrases  on  his  lips 
As  if  he  talked  to  himself,  in  a  kind  of 

dream. 

Yet  I  believe  the  clouds  dispersed  a  little 
Around  his  death-bed,  and  with  that  strange 

joy 

Which  comes  in  death,  he  saw  the  unchang- 
ing stars. 
Christine  was  there.     She  held  him  in  her 

arms. 
I  think,  too,  that  he  knew  his  work  was 

safe. 

An  hour  before  he  died,  he  smiled  at  me, 
And  whispered, — what  he  meant  I  hardly 

know — 

Perhaps  a  broken  echo  from  the  past, 
A  fragment  of  some  old  familiar  thought, 
And  yet  I  seemed  to  know.      It  haunts  me 

still : 
'Come  then,  swift-footed,  let  me  see  you 

stand, 

[100] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Waiting   before   me,   crowned  with  youth 

and  joy ; 

This  is  the  turning.    Take  it  from  my  hand. 
For  I  am  ready,  ready  now,  to  fall.' ' 


[101] 


Ill 

KEPLER 

JOHN   KEPLER,   from   the  chimney 
corner,  watched 
His  wife  Susannah,  with  her  sleeves  rolled 

back 

Making  a  salad  in  a  big  blue  bowl. 
The    thick   tufts   of   his   black   rebellious 

hair 
Brushed   into   sleek   submission;   his   trim 

beard 

Snug  as  the  soft  round  body  of  a  thrush 
Between  the  white  wings  of  his  fan-shaped 

ruff 
(His  best,  with  the  fine  lace  border)  spoke 

of  guests 
Expected ;   and  his  quick  grey  humorous 

eyes, 
His    firm    red    whimsical    pleasure-loving 

mouth, 

[102] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And  all  those  elvish  twinklings  of  his  face, 
Were  lit  with  eagerness.    Only  between  his 

brows, 
Perplexed    beneath    that    subtle    load    of 

dreams, 
Two  delicate  shadows  brooded. 

"What  does  it  mean? 
Sir  Henry  Wotton's  letter  breathed  a  hint 
That  Italy  is  prohibiting  my  book," 
He  muttered.    "Then,  if  Austria  damns  it 

too, 

Susannah  mine,  we  may  be  forced  to  choose 
Between  the  truth  and  exile.     When  he 

comes, 

He'll  tell  me  more.     Ambassadors,  I  sup- 
pose, 

Can  only  write  in  cipher,  while  our  world 
Is   steered   to   heaven   by   murderers   and 

thieves ; 
But,  if  he'd  wrapped  his  friendly  warnings 

up 
In  a  verse  or  two,  I  might  have  done  more 

work 

[103] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

These  last  three  days,  eh,  Sue?" 

uLook,  John,"  said  she, 
"What  beautiful  hearts  of  lettuce!    Tell  me 

now 
How  shall  I  mix  it?    Will  your  English 

guest 

Turn  up  his  nose  at  dandelion  leaves 
As  crisp  and  young  as  these?    They've  just 

the  tang 
Of  bitterness  in  their  milk  that  gives  a 

relish 
And  makes  all  sweet;  and  that's  philosophy, 

John. 
Now — these    spring    onions!     Would    his 

Excellency 
Like  sugared  rose-leaves  better?" 

"He's  a  poet, 

Not  an  ambassador  only,  so  I  think 
He'Jl  like  a  cottage  salad." 

"A  poet,  John ! 

I  hate  their  arrogant  little  insect  ways! 
I'll  put  a  toadstool  in." 
[104] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

"Poets,  dear  heart, 

Can  be  divided  into  two  clear  kinds, — 
One  that,  by  virtue  of  a  half-grown  brain, 
Lives  in  a  silly  world  of  his  own  making, 
A  bubble,  blown  by  himself,  in  which  he 

flits 

And  dizzily  bombinates,  chanting  'I,  I,  I,' 
For  there  is  nothing  in  the  heavens  above 
Or  the  earth,  or  hell  beneath,  but  goes  to 

swell 
His  personal  pronoun.     Bring  him  some 

dreadful  news 
His  dearest  friend  is  burned  to  death, — 

You'll  see 

The  monstrous  insect  strike  an  attitude 
And  shape  himself  into  one  capital  I, 
A  rubric,  with  red  eyes.  You'll  see  him 

use 

The  coffin  for  his  pedestal,  hear  him  mouth 
His  'I,  I,  I'  instructing  haggard  grief 
Concerning  his  odd  ego.     Does  he  chirp 
Of  love,  it's  *I,  I,  I'  Narcissus,  love, 
[105] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Myself,  Narcissus,  imaged  in  those  eyes; 

For  all  the  love-notes  that  he  sounds  are 
made 

After  the  fashion  of  passionate  grasshop- 
pers, 

By  grating  one  hind-leg  across  another. 

Nor  does  he  learn  to  sound  that  mellower 
'You,' 

Until   his   bubble   bursts   and   leaves   him 
drowned, 

An  insect  in  a  soap-sud. 

But  there's  another  kind,  whose  mind  still 
moves 

In  vital  concord  with  the  soul  of  things; 

So  that  it  thinks  in  music,  and  its  thoughts 

Pulse  into  natural  song.    A  separate  voice, 

And   yet   caught   up   by   the   surrounding 
choirs, 

There,  in  the  harmonies  of  the  Universe, 

Losing  himself,  he  saves  his  soul  alive." 

"John,  I'm  afraid!"— 

"Afraid  of  what,  Susannah?"— 

"Afraid  to  put  those  Ducklings  on  to  roast. 
[106] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Your  friend  may  miss  his  road;  and,  if  he's 

late, 
My    little    part    of    the    music    will    be 

spoiled." — 

"He  won't,  Susannah.     Bad  poets  are  al- 
ways late. 

Good  poets,  at  times,  delay  a  note  or  two; 
But  all  the  great  are  punctual  as  the  sun. 
What's    that?      He's    early!      That's    his 

knock,  I  think!" — 
"The    Lord    have    mercy,    John,    there's 

nothing  ready! 

Take  him  into  your  study  and  talk  to  him, 
Talk  hard.    He's  come  an  hour  before  his 

time; 
And  I've  to  change  my  dress.     I'll  into  the 

kitchen!" 

Then,  in  a  moment,  all  the  cottage  rang 
With  greetings;  hand  grasped  hand;  his 

Excellency 

Forgot    the    careful    prologue    he'd    pre- 
pared, 

[107] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

And  made  an  end  of  mystery.     He  had 
brought 

A  message  from  his  wisdom-loving  king 

Who,  hearing  of  new  menaces  to  the  light 

In   Europe,   urged   the   illustrious   Kepler 
now 

To  make  his  home  in  England.     There, 
his  thought 

And  speech  would  both  be  free. 

"My  friend,"  said  Wotton, 

"I  have  moved  in  those  old  strongholds  of 
the  night, 

And  heard  strange  mutterings.     It  is  not 
many  years 

Since  Bruno  burned.    There's  trouble  brew- 
ing too, 

For  one  you  know,  I  think, — the  Floren- 
tine 

Who  made  that  curious  optic  tube." — 

'You  mean 

The  man  at  Padua,  Galileo?" — 

"Yes." 

[108] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

"They  will  not  dare  or  need.     Proof  or 

disproof 
Rests  with  their  eyes." — 

"Kepler,  have  you  not  heard 
Of  those  who,  fifteen  hundred  years  ago, 
Had  eyes  and  would  not  see?     Eyes  quickly 

close 

When  souls  prefer  the  dark." — 
"So  be  it.     Other  and  younger  eyes  will  see. 
Perhaps  that's  why  God  gave  the  young  a 

spice 
Of  devilry.    They'll  go  look,  while  elders 

gasp; 
And,  when  the  Devil  and  Truth  go  hand  in 

hand, 
God  help  their  enemies.     You  will  send  my 

thanks, 
My  grateful  thanks,   Sir  Henry,   to  your 

king. 

To-day  I  cannot  answer  you.    I  must  think. 
It  would  be  very  difficult.    My  wife 
Would  find  it  hard  to  leave  her  native  land. 
Say  nothing  yet  before  her." 
[109] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Then,  to  hide 

Their  secret  from  Susannah,  Kepler  poured 
His  mind  out,  and  the  world's  dead 

branches  bloomed. 

For,  when  he  talked,  another  spring  began 
To  which  our  May  was  winter;  and,  in  the 

boughs 
Of  his  delicious  thoughts,  like  feathered 

choirs, 
Bits  of  old  rhyme,  scraps  from  the  Sabine 

farm, 

Celestial  phrases  from  the  Shepherd  King, 
And  fluttering  morsels  from  Catullus  sang. 
Much  was  fantastic.  All  was  touched  with 

light 
That   only    genius    knows    to    steal    from 

heaven. 

He  spoke  of  poetry,  as  the  ''flowering  time 
Of  knowledge,"  called  it  "thought  in  pas- 
sionate tune 
With  those  great  rhythms  that  steer  the 

moon  and  sun; 

[no] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Thought  in  such  concord  with  the  soul  of 

things 

That  it  can  only  move,  like  tides  and  stars, 
And  man's  own  beating  heart,  and  the  wings 

of  birds, 

In  law,  whose  service  only  sets  them  free." 
Therefore  it  often  leaps  to  the  truth  we 

seek, 

Clasping  it,  as  a  lover  clasps  his  bride 
In  darkness,  ere  the  sage  can  light  his  lamp. 
And  so,  in  music,  men  might  find  the  road 
To  truth,   at  many  a  point,  where  sages 

grope. 

One  day,  a  greater  Plato  would  arise 
To  write  a  new  philosophy,  he  said, 
Showing  how  music  is  the  golden  clue 
To  all  the  windings  of  the  world's  dark 
maze. 

Himself  had  used  it,  partly  proved  it,  too, 
In  his  own  book, — the  Harmonies  of  the 
World. 

[in] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

'All  that  the  years  discover  points  one  way 
To  this  great  ordered  harmony,"  he  said, 
"Revealed    on    earth    by    music.     Planets 

move 
In  subtle  accord  like  notes  of  one  great 

song 

Audible  only  to  the  Artificer, 
The  Eternal  Artist.  There's  no  grief,  no 

pain, 

But  music — follow  it  simply  as  a  clue, 
A  microcosmic  pattern  of  the  whole — 
Can  show  you,  somewhere  in  its  golden 

scheme, 

The  use  of  all  such  discords;  and,  at  last, 
Their  exquisite  solution.     Then  darkness 

breaks 

Into  diviner  light,  love's  agony  climbs 
Through  death  to  life,  and  evil  builds  up 

heaven. 

Have  you  not  heard,  in  some  great  sym- 
phony, 
Those  golden  mathematics  making  clear 

[112] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

The  victory  of  the  soul?     Have  you  not 

heard 
The  very  heavens  opening? 

Do  those  fools 

• 

Who  thought  me  an  infidel  then,  still  smile 
at  me 

For  trying  to  read  the  stars  in  terms  of 
song, 

Discern   their   orbits,   measure   their  dis- 
tances, 

By  musical  proportions?    Let  them  smile, 

My  folly  at  least  revealed  those  three  great 
laws; 

Gave  me  the  golden  vases  of  the  Egyptians, 

To  set  in  the  great  new  temple  of  my  God 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  Egypt. 

They  will  forget 

My  methods,  doubtless,  as  the  years  go  by, 

And  the  world's  wisdom  shuts  its  music  out. 

The  dust  will  gather  on  all  my  harmonies ; 

Or  scholars  turn  my  pages  listlessly, 

Glance  at  the  musical  phrases,  and  pass  on, 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Not  troubling  even  to  read  one  Latin  page. 
Yet  they'll   accept  those   great   results   as 

mine. 

I  call  them  mine.    How  can  I  help  exulting, 
Who  climbed  my  ladder  of  music  to  the 

skies 

And  found,  by  accident,  let  them  call  it  so, 
Or  by  the  inspiration  of  that  Power 
Which  built  His  world   of   music,   those 

three  laws: — 
First,  how  the  speed  of  planets  round  the 

sun 

Bears  a  proportion,  beautifully  precise 
As  music,  to  their  silver  distances; 
Next,  that  although  they  seem  to  swerve 

aside 

From  those  plain  circles  of  old  Copernicus 
Their  paths  were  not  less  rhythmical  and 

exact, 
But  followed  always  that  most  exquisite 

curve 
In  its  most  perfect  form,  the  pure  ellipse; 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Third,  that  although  their  speed  from  point 

to  point 
Appeared   to  change,   their   radii  always 

moved 
Through   equal   fields  of  space   in   equal 

times. 

Was  this  my  infidelity,  was  this 
Less  full  of  beauty,  less  divine  in  truth, 
Than  their  dull  chaos?    You,  the  poet  will 

know 
How,    as    those    dark    perplexities    grew 

clear, 
And  old  anomalous  discords  changed   to 

song, 
My  whole  soul  bowed  and  cried,  Almighty 

God 
These  are   Thy  thoughts,  I  am   thinking 

after  Thee! 

I  hope  that  Tycho  knows.  I  owed  so  much 
To  Tycho  Brahe;  for  it  was  he  who  built 
The  towers  from  which  I  hailed  those  three 

great  laws. 

["5] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

How  strange  and  far  away  it  all  seems  now. 
The  thistles  grow  upon  that  little  isle 
Where  Tycho's  great  Uraniborg  once  was. 
Yet,  for  a  few  sad  years,  before  it  fell 
Into  decay  and  ruin,  there  was  one 
Who  crept  about  its  crumbling  corridors, 
And  lit  the  fire  of  memory  on  its  hearth." — 
Wotton  looked  quickly  up,  "I  think  I  have 

heard 
Something  of  that.    You  mean  poor  Jeppe, 

his  dwarf. 
Fynes  Moryson,  at  the  Mermaid  Inn  one 

night 

Showed  a  most  curious  manuscript,  a  scrawl 
On  yellow   parchment,   crusted   here   and 

there 
With  sea-salt,   or  the   salt  of  those   thick 

tears 
Creatures  like  Jeppe,  the  crooked  dwarf, 

could  weep. 
It  had  been  found,  clasped  in  a  crooked 

hand, 

Under  the  cliffs  of  Wheen,  a  crooked  hand 
[116] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

That  many  a  time  had  beckoned  to  passing 

ships, 
Hoping  to  find  some  voyager  who  would 

take 
A  letter  to  its  master. 

The  sailors  laughed 
And  jeered  at  him,  till  Jeppe  threw  stones 

at  them. 
And  now  Jeppe,  too,  was  dead,  and  one 

who  knew 
Fynes    Moryson,    had    found    him,    and 

brought  home 

That  curious  crooked  scrawl.    Fynes  Eng- 
lished it 

Out  of  its  barbarous  Danish.  Thus  it  ran : 
'Master,  have  you  forgotten  Jeppe,  your 

dwarf, 

Who  used  to  lie  beside  the  big  log-fire 
And  feed  from  your  own  hand?     The  hall 

is  dark, 

There  are  no  voices  now, — only  the  wind 
And  the  sea-gulls  crying  round  Uraniborg. 
I  too  am  crying,  Master,  even  I, 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Because  there  is  no  fire  upon  the  hearth, 
No  light  in  any  window.    It  is  night, 
And  all  the  faces  that  I  knew  are  gone. 

Master,  I  watched  you  leaving  us.     I  saw 
The  white  sails  dwindling  into  sea-gull's 

wings, 

Then  melting  into  foam,  and  all  was  dark. 
I  lay  among  the  wild  flowers  on  the  cliff 
And  dug  my  nails  into  the  stiff  white  chalk 
And  called  you,  Tycho  Brahe.     You  did 

not  hear; 
But  gulls  and  jackdaws,  wheeling  round 

my  head, 
Mocked  me  with  Tycho  Brake,  and  Tycho 

Brahe! 

You  were  a  great  magician,  Tycho  Brahe; 
And,  now  that  they  have  driven  you  away, 
I,  that  am  only  Jeppe, — the  crooked  dwarf, 
You  used  to  laugh  at  for  his  matted  hair, 
And  head  too  big  and  heavy — take  your 
pen 

[»*] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Here  in  your  study.     I  will  write  it  down 

And  send  it  by  a  sailor  to  the  King 

Of  Scotland,  and  who  knows,  the  mouse 

that  gnawed 
The    lion    free,    may    save    you,    Tycho 

Brahe.'  " 
"He  is  free  now,"  said  Kepler,   "had  he 

lived 
He  would  have  sent  for  Jeppe  to  join  him 

there 
At   Prague.     But   death    forestalled    him, 

and  your  King. 
The  years  in  which  he  watched  that  planet 

Mars, 
His   patient  notes   and   records,    all   were 

mine; 
And,  mark  you,  had  he  clipped  or  trimmed 

one  fact 

By  even  a  hair's-breadth,  so  that  his  re- 
sults 

Made  a  pure  circle  of  that  planet's  path 
It  might  have  baffled  us  for  an  age  and 

drowned 

[119] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

All  our  new  light  in  darkness.    But  he  held 
To  what  he  saw.    He  might  so  easily, 
So  comfortably  have  said,  'My  instruments 
Are  crude  and  fallible.    In  so  fine  a  point 
Eyes  may  have  erred,  too.     Why  not  ac- 
quiesce? 

Why  mar  the  tune,  why  dislocate  a  world, 
For  one  slight  clash  of  seeming  fact  with 

faith?' 
But  no,  though  stars  might  swerve,  he  held 

his  course, 

Recording  only  what  his  eyes  could  see 
Until  death  closed  them. 

Then,  to  his  results, 

I  added  mine  and  saw,  in  one  wild  gleam, 
Strange  as  the  light  of  day  to  one  born 

blind, 

A  subtler  concord  ruling  them  and  heard 
Profounder  tones  of  harmony  resolve 
Those  broken  melodies  into  song  again." — 
"Faintly  and  far  away,  I,  too,  have  seen 
In  music,  and  in  verse,  that  golden  clue 
[120] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Whereof  you   speak,"   said  W.otton.     "In 

all  true  song, 

There  is  a  hidden  logic.  Even  the  rhyme 
That,  in  bad  poets,  wrings  the  neck  of 

thought, 

Is  like  a  subtle  calculus  to  the  true, 
An  instrument  of  discovery.    It  reveals 
New  harmonies,  new  analogies.     It  links 
Far    things    and    near,    not    in    unnatural 

chains, 

But  in  those  true  accords  which  still  escape 
The  plodding  reason,  yet  unify  the  world. 
I  caught  some  glimpses  of  this  mystic 

power 

In  verses  of  your  own,  that  elegy 
On    Tycho,    and    that   great   quatrain    of 

yours — 

I  cannot  quite  recall  the  Latin  words, 
But  made  it  roughly  mine  in  words  like 

these : 

'I  know  that  I  am  dust,  and  daily  die; 

[121] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Yet,  as  I  trace  those  rhythmic  spheres  at 

night, 
I  stand  before  the  Thunderer's  throne  on 

high 
And  feast  on  nectar  in  the  halls  of  light.' 

My  version  lacks  the  glory  of  your  lines 
But  .  .  ." 

"Mine  too  was  a  version," 

Kepler  laughed, 
"Turned  into   Latin  from  old   Ptolemy's 

Greek; 

For,  even  in  verse,  half  of  the  joy,  I  think, 
Is  just  to  pass  the  torch  from  hand  to  hand 
An  undimmed  splendour.  But,  last  night, 

I  tried 

Some  music  all  my  own.  I  had  a  dream 
That  I  was  wandering  in  some  distant 

world. 
I  have  often  dreamed  it.     Once  it  was  the 

moon. 
I  wrote  that  down  in  prose.    When  I  am 

dead, 

[122] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

It  may  be   printed.     This   was   a   fairer 

dream: 

For  I  was  walking  in  a  far-off  spring 
Upon  the  planet,  Venus.     Only  verse 
Could  spread  true  wings  for  that  delicious 

world ; 

And  so  I  wrote  it — for  no  eyes  but  mine, 
Or  'twould  be  seized  on,  doubtless,  as  fresh 

proof 
Of  poor  old  Kepler's  madness." — 

"Let  me  hear, 
Madman   to  madman;   for   I,   too,   write 

verse." 
Then    Kepler,    in    a    rhythmic    murmur, 

breathed 
His    rich    enchanted    memories    of    mat 

dream : 

"Beauty  burned  before  me 

Swinging    a    lanthorn    through    that 

fragrant  night. 
I  followed  a  distant  singing, 
And  a  dreaming  light. 
[123] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

How  she  led  me,  I  cannot  tell 

To  that  strange  world  afar, 
Nor  how  I  walked,  in  that  wild  glen 

Upon  the  sunset  star. 

Winged  creatures  floated 

Under  those  rose-red  boughs  of  violet 

bloom, 
With  delicate  forms  unknown  on  Earth 

'Twixt  irised  plume  and  plume; 
Human-hearted,  angel-eyed, 

And  crowned  with  unknown  flowers; 
For  nothing  in  that  enchanted  world 
Followed  the  way  of  ours. 

Only  I  saw  that  Beauty, 

On  Hesper,  as  on  earth,  still  held  com- 
mand; 
And  though,  as  one  in  slumber, 

I  roamed  that  radiant  land, 
With  all  these  earth-born  senses  sealed 

To  what  the  Hesperians  knew, 
The  faithful  lanthorn  of  her  law 

[1*4] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Was  mine  on  Hesper  too. 

Then,  half  at  home  with  wonder, 

I   saw  strange  flocks  of  flowers  like 

birds  take  flight; 
Great  trees  that  burned  like  opals 

To  lure  their  loves  at  night; 
Dark  beings  that  could  move  in  realms 

No  dream  of  ours  has  known. 
Till  these  became  as  common  things 

As  men  account  their  own. 

Yet,  when  that  lanthorn  led  me 
Back  to  the  world  where  once  I 
thought  me  wise; 

I  saw,  on  this  my  planet, 

What  souls,  with  awful  eyes. 

Hardly  I  dared  to  walk  her  fields 
As  in  that  strange  re-birth 

I  looked  on  those  wild  miracles 
The  birds  and  flowers  of  earth." 

Silence  a  moment  held  them,  loth  to  break 
The  spell  of  that  strange  dream, 
•     [125] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

"One  proof  the  more," 
Said  Wotton  at  last,  "that  songs  can  mount 

and  fly 

To  truth ;  for  this  fantastic  vision  of  yours 
Of  life  in  other  spheres,  awakes  in  me, 
Either  that  slumbering  knowledge  of  Soc- 
rates, 

Or  some  strange  premonition  that  the  years 
Will  prove  it  true.  This  music  leads  us  far 
From  all  our  creeds,  except  that  faith  in  law. 
Your  quest  for  knowledge — how  it  rests  on 

that! 

How  sure  the  soul  is  that  if  truth  destroy 
The  temple,  in  three  days  the  truth  will 

build 

A  nobler  temple;  and  that  order  reigns 
In  all  things.     Even  your  atheist  builds  his 

doubt 
On  that  strange  faith;  destroys  his  heaven 

and  God 
In  absolute  faith  that  his  own  thought  is 

true 
To  law,  God's  lanthorn  to  our  stumbling 

feet; 

[126] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And    so,    despite    himself,    he    worships 

God, 
For  where  true  souls  are,  there  are  God 

and  heaven." — 

"It  is  an  ancient  wisdom.     Long  ago," 

Said  Kepler,  "under  the  glittering  Eastern 
sky, 

The  shepherd  king  looked  up  at  those  great 
stars, 

Those  ordered  hosts,  and  cried  Gceli  narrant 

Gloriam  Dei! 

Though  there  be  some  to-day 

Who'd  ape  Lucretius,  and  believe  them- 
selves 

Epicureans,  little  they  know  of  him 

Who,  even  in  utter  darkness,   bowed  his 
head, 

To    something   nobler   than    the    gods   of 
Rome 

Reigning  beyond  the  darkness. 

They  accept 

The  law,  the  music  of  these  ordered  worlds ; 

And  straight  deny  the  law's  first  postulate, 
[127] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

That  out  of  nothingness  nothing  can  be 

born, 
Nor  greater  things  from  less.     Can  music 

rise 

By  chance  from  chaos,  as  they  said  that  star 
In  Serpentarius  rose?     I  told  them,  then, 
That  when  I  was  a  boy,  with  time  to  spare, 
I  played  at  anagrams.     Out  of  my  Latin 

name 

Johannes  Keplerus  came  that  sinister  phrase 
Serpens  in  akuleo.     Struck  by  this, 
I  tried  again,  but  trusted  it  to  chance. 
I  took  some  playing  cards,  and  wrote  on 

each 

One  letter  of  my  name.     Then  I  began 
To  shuffle  them;  and,  at  every  shuffle,  I 

read 

The  letters,  in  their  order,  as  they  came, 
To  see  what  meaning  chance  might  give  to 

them. 
Wotton,  the  gods  and  goddesses  must  have 

laughed 

To  see  the  weeks  I  lost  in  studying  chance; 
[128] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

For  had  I  scattered  those  cards  into  the 

black 

Epicurean  eternity,  I'll  swear 
They'd  still  be  playing  at  leap-frog  m  the 

dark, 

And  show  no  glimmer  of  sense.     And  yet- 
to  hear 
Those  wittols  talk,  you'd  think  you'd  but 

to  mix 

A  bushel  of  good  Greek  letters  in  a  sack 
And  shake  them  roundly  for  an  age  or  so, 
To  pour  the  Odyssey  out. 

At  last,  I  told, 
Those  disputants  what  my  wife  had  said. 

One  night 

When  I  was  tired  and  all  my  mind  a-dust 
With  pondering  on  their  atoms,  I  was 

called 

To  supper,  and  she  placed  before  me  there 
A  most  delicious  salad.  'It  would  appear,' 
I  thought  aloud,  'that  if  these  pewter  dishes, 
Green  hearts  of  lettuce,  tarragon,  slips  of 

thyme, 

[129] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Slices  of  hard  boiled  egg,  and  grains  of  salt. 
With  drops  of  water,  vinegar  and  oil, 
Had  in  a  bottomless  gulf  been  flying  about 
From  all  eternity,  one  sure  certain  day 
The  sweet  invisible  hand  of  Happy  Chance 
Would  serve  them  as  a  salad.' 

'Likely  enough,' 

My  wife  replied,  'but  not  so  good  as  mine, 
Nor  so  well  dressed.' ' 

They  laughed.     Susannah's  voice 
Broke  in,  "I've  made  a  better  one.     The 

receipt 
Came    from    the    Golden    Lion.     I    have 

dished 
Ducklings  and  peas  and  all.     Come,  John, 

say  grace." 


[130] 


IV 
GALILEO 

I 

(Celeste,  in  the  Convent  at  Arcetri,  writes  to  her  old 
lover  at  Rome.) 

MY    friend,    my    dearest    friend,    my 
own  dear  love, 

I,  who  am  dead  to  love,  and  see  around  me 
The  funeral  tapers  lighted,  send  this  cry 
Out  of  my  heart  to  yours,  before  the  end. 
You  told  me  once  you  would  endure  the 

rack 
To  save  my  heart  one  pang.     O,  save  it 

now! 
Last  night  there  came   a   dreadful  word 

from  Rome 
For  my  dear  lord  and  father,  summoning 

him 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Before   the  inquisitors  there,  to  take  his 

trial 
At  threescore  years  and  ten.    There  is  a 

threat 

Of  torture,  if  his  lips  will  not  deny 
The  truth  his  eyes  have  seen. 

You  know  my  father, 
You  know  me,  too.    You  never  will  believe 
That  he  and  I  are  enemies  of  the  faith. 
Could  I,  who  put  away  all  earthly  love, 
Deny   the   Cross   to   which   I   nailed   this 

flesh? 
Could  he,  who,  on  the  night  when  all  those 

heavens 
Opened    above    us,    with    their    circling 

worlds, 
Knelt    with    me,    crushed    beneath    that 

weight  of  glory, 

Forget  the  Maker  of  that  glory  now? 
You'll  not  believe  it.     Neither  would  the 

Church, 
Had    not    his    enemies    poisoned    all    the 

springs 

[132] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And   fountain-heads   of   truth.     It   is   not 

Rome 
That   summons    him,    but    Magini,    Sizy, 

Scheiner, 

Lorini,  all  the  blind,  pedantic  crew 
That   envy   him   his   fame,    and   hate   his 

works 
For  dwarfing  theirs. 

Must  such  things  always  be 
When  truth  is  born? 
Only  five  nights  ago  we  walked  together, 
My   father   and   I,   here   in   the   Convent 

garden ; 
And,    as   the   dusk  turned   everything   to 

dreams, 
We  dreamed   together  of  his  work  well 

done 

And  happiness  to  be.    We  did  not  dream 
That  even  then,  muttering  above  his  book, 
His    enemies,    those    enemies    whom    the 

truth 
Stings  into  hate,  were  plotting  to  destroy 

him. 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Yet   something   shadowed   him.     I    recaU 

his  words — 
"The  grapes  are  ripening.     See,  Celeste, 

how  black 
And   heavy.    We   shall   have   good   wine 

this  year," — 

"Yes,  all  grows  ripe,"  I  said,  "your  life- 
work,  too, 

Dear  father.     Are  you  happy  now  to  know 
Your  book  is  printed,  and  the  new  world 

born?" 
He    shook    his    head,    a    little    sadly,    I 

thought. 
"Autumn's    too    full    of    endings.     Fruits 

grow  ripe 
And  fall,  and  then  comes  winter." 

"Not  for  you! 
Never,"  I  said,  "for  those  who  write  their 

names 
In    heaven.     Think,    father,    through    all 

ages  now 

No  one  can  ever  watch  that  starry  sky 
Without  remembering  you.  Your  fame  . . ." 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And  there 
He  stopped  me,   laid  his  hand   upon  my 

arm, 
And  standing  in  the  darkness  with   dead 

leaves 
Drifting  around  him,   and  his  bare  grey 

head 

Bowed  in  complete  humility,  his  voice 
Shaken  and  low,  he  said  like  one  in  prayer, 
"Celeste,  beware  of  that.     Say  truth,  not 

fame. 

If  there  be  any  happiness  on  earth, 
It  springs  from  truth  alone,  the  truth  we 

live 
In   act   and   thought     I   have   looked   up 

there  and  seen 

Too  many  worlds  to  talk  of  fame  on  earth. 
Fame,  on  this  grain  of  dust  among  the 

stars, 

The  trumpet  of  a  gnat  that  thinks  to  halt 
The  great  sun-clusters  moving  on  their  way 
In  silence!  Yes,  that's  fame,  but  truth, 

Celeste, 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Truth  and  its  laws  are  constant,  even  up 

there ; 
That's  where  one  man  may  face  and  fight 

the  world. 
His   weakness   turns   to   strength.     He    is 

made  one 

With  universal  forces,  and  he  holds 
The  password  to  eternity. 
Gate  after  gate  swings  back  through  all 

the  heavens. 

No  sentry  halts  him,  and  no  flaming  sword. 
Say  truth,  Celeste,  not  fame." 

"No,  for  I'll  say 
A   better   word,"    I    told   him.     "I'll    say 

love." 
He  took  my  face  between  his  hands  and 

said— 
His   face   all   dark   between   me   and   the 

stars— 
''What's  love,  Celeste,  but  this  dear  face 

of  truth 
Upturned  to  heaven." 

He  left  me,  and  I  heard, 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Some   twelve   hours   later,   that   this   man 
whose  soul 

Was   dedicate    to   Truth,   was    threatened 
now 

With  torture,  if  his  lips  did  not  deny 

The  truth  he  loved. 

I  tell  you  all  these  things 

Because  to  help  him,  you  must  understand 
him; 

And  even  you  may  doubt  him,  if  you  hear 

Only  those  plausible  outside  witnesses 

Who  never  heard  his  heart-beats  as  have  I. 

So  let  me  tell  you  all — his  quest  for  truth, 

And  how  this  hate  began. 

Even  from  the  first, 

He   made    his    enemies    of    those    almost- 
minds 

Who  chanced  upon  some  new  thing  in  the 
dark 

And  could  not  see  its  meaning,  for  he  saw, 

Always,  the  law  illumining  it  within. 

So  when  he  heard  of  that  strange  optic- 
glass 

[i37] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Which    brought    the    distance    near,    he 

thought  it  out 

By  reason,  where  that  other  hit  upon  it 
Only  by  chance.  He  made  his  telescope; 
And  O,  how  vividly  that  day  comes  back, 
When  in  their  gorgeous  robes  the  Senate 

stood 

Beside  him  on  that  high  Venetian  tower, 
Scanning  the  bare  blue  sea  that  showed 

no  speck 
Of  sail.     Then,  one  by  one,  he  bade  them 

look; 

And  one  by  one  they  gasped,  "a  miracle." 
Brown  sails  and  red,  a  fleet  of  fishing 

boats, 
See   how  the  bright  foam  bursts   around 

their  bows! 
See  how  the  bare-legged  sailors  walk  the 

decks! 

Then,  quickly  looking  up,  as  if  to  catch 
The  vision,  ere  it  tricked  them,   all  they 

saw 
Was  empty  sea  again. 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Many  believed 
That  all  was  trickery,  but  he  bade  them 

note 
The  colours  of  the  boats,  and  count  their 

sails. 

Then,  in  a  little  while,  the  naked  eye 
Saw  on   the   sky-line   certain   specks   that 

grew, 
Took   form   and   colour;    and,   within   an 

hour, 

Their  magic  fleet  came  foaming  into  port. 
Whereat  old  senators,  wagging  their  white 

beards, 
And  plucking  at  golden  chains  with  stiff 

old  claws 
Too  feeble  for  the  sword-hilt,  squeaked  at 

once: 

"This  glass  will  give  us  great  advantages 
In  time  of  war." 

War,  war,  O  God  of  love, 
Even  amidst  their  wonder  at  Thy  world, 
Dazed  with  new  beauty,  gifted  with  new 

powers, 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

These  old  men  dreamed  of  blood.     This 

was  the  thought 

To  which  all  else  must  pander,  if  he  hoped 
Even  for  one  hour  to  see  those  dull  eyes 

blaze 
At  his  discoveries. 

*  Wolves,"  he  called  them,  "wolves"; 
And  yet  he  humoured  them.     He  stooped 

to  them. 
Promised     them    more     advantages,     and 

talked 

As  elders  do  to  children.     You  may  call  it 
Weakness,    and    yet    could    any    man    do 

more, 

Alone,  against  a  world,  with  such  a  trust 
To  guard  for  future  ages?     All  his  life 
He  has  had  some  weanling  truth  to  guard, 

has  fought 

Desperately  to  defend  it,  taking  cover 
Wherever  he  could,  behind  old  fallen  trees 
Of  superstition,  or  ruins  of  old  thought. 
He  has  read  horoscopes  to  keep  his  work 
Among  the  stars  in  favour  with  his  prince. 
[140] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

I  tell  you  this  that  you  may  understand 
What  seems  inconstant  in  him.     It  may  be 
That  he  was  wrong  in  these  things,   and 

must  pay 

A  dreadful  penalty.    But  you  must  explore 
His  mind's  great  ranges,  plains  and  lonely 

peaks 

Before  you  know  him,  as  I  know  him  now. 
How   could   he   talk   to   children,   but   in 

words 
That    children     understand?     Have     not 

some  said 
That  God   Himself  has  made   His  glory 

dark 

For  men  to  bear  it.     In  his  human  sphere 
My  father  has  done  this. 

War  was  the  dream 
That  filmed  those  old  men's  eyes.    They 

did  not  hear 

My  father,  when  he  hinted  at  his  hope 
Of  opening  up  the  heavens  for  mankind 
With    that   new    power   of    bringing    far 

things  near. 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

My  heart  burned  as  I  heard  him;  but  they 

blinked 
Like  owls  at  noonday.     Then  I  saw  him 

turn, 
Desperately,     to     humour     them,     from 

thoughts 
Of  heaven  to  thoughts  of  warfare. 

Late  that  night 

My  own  dear  lord  and  father  came  to  me 
And  whispered,  with  a  glory  in  his  face 
As   one   who    has    looked    on    things    too 

beautiful 
To  breathe  aloud,  "Come  out,  Celeste,  and 

see 
A  miracle." 

I  followed  him.     He  showed  me, 
Looking   along   his   outstretched    hand,    a 

star, 

A  point  of  light  above  our  olive-trees. 
It  was  the  star  called  Jupiter.     And  then 
He  bade  me  look  again,  but  through  his 

glass. 

I  feared  to  look  at  first,  lest  I  should  see 
[142] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Some  wonder  never  meant  for  mortal  eyes. 
He  too,  had  felt  the  same,  not  fear,  but 

awe, 

As  if  his  hand  were  laid  upon  the  veil 
Between  this  world  and  heaven. 

Then  ...  I,  too,  saw, 
Small  as  the  smallest  bead  of  mist  that 

clings 
To  a  spider's  thread  at  dawn,  the  floating 

disk 

Of  what  had  been  a  star,  a  planet  now, 
And  near  it,  with  no  disk  that  eyes  could 

see, 

Four  needle-points  of  light,  unseen  before. 
"The   moons   of   Jupiter,"    he    whispered 

low, 
"I  have  watched  them  as  they  moved,  from 

night  to  night; 

A  system  like  our  own,  although  the  world 
Their  fourfold  lights  and  shadows  make  so 

strange 
Must — as  I  think — be  mightier  than  we 

dreamed, 

[-43] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

A  Titan  planet.     Earth  begins  to  fade 
And  dwindle;  yes,  the  heavens  are  open- 
ing now. 
Perhaps  up  there,  this  night,  some  lonely 

soul 

Gazes  at  earth,  watches  our  dawning  moon, 
And  wonders,  as  we  wonder." 

In  that  dark 
We  knelt  together  .  .  . 

Very  strange  to  see 
The  vanity  and  fickleness  of  princes. 
Before  his  enemies  had  provoked  the  wrath 
Of  Rome  against  him,  he  had  given  the 

name 

Of  Medicean  stars  to  those  four  moons 
In  honour  of  Prince  Cosmo.    This  aroused 
The  court  of  France  to  seek  a  lasting  place 
Upon  the  map  of  heaven.     A  letter  came 
Beseeching  him  to  find  another  star 
Even  more  brilliant,  and  to  call  it  Henri 
After  the  reigning  and  most  brilliant  prince 
Of  France.     They  did  not  wish  the  family 
name 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Of    Bourbon.     This   would    dissipate    the 

glory. 
No,   they   preferred   his   proper   name   of 

Henri. 

We  read  it  together  in  the  garden  here, 
Weeping  with   laughter,   never   dreaming 

then 
That  this,  this,  this,  could   stir  the  little 

hearts 
Of  men  to  envy. 

O,  but  afterwards, 
The   blindness   of   the   men   who   thought 

themselves 
His  enemies.     The  men  who  never  knew 

him, 

The  men  that  had  set  up  a  thing  of  straw 
And  called  it  by  his  name,  and  wished  to 

burn 

Their  image  and  himself  in  one  wild  fire. 
Men?    Were  they  men  or  children?    They 

refused 

Even  to  look  through  Galileo's  glass, 
[H5] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Lest  seeing  might  persuade  them.     Even 

that  sage, 

That  great  Aristotelian,  Julius  Libri, 
Holding  his  breath  there,  like  a  fractious 

child 

Until  his  cheeks  grew  purple,  and  the  veins 
Were  bursting  on  his  brow,  swore  he  would 

die 
Sooner  than  look. 

And  that  poor  monstrous  babe 
Not  long  thereafter,  kept  his  word   and 

died, 

Died  of  his  own  pent  rage,  as  I  have  heard. 
Whereat   my   lord   and    father   shook   his 

head 
And,    smiling,    somewhat   sadly — oh,    you 

know 

That  smile  of  his,  more  deadly  to  the  false 
Than     even     his     reasoning — murmured, 

"Libri,  dead, 

Who  called  the  moons  of  Jupiter  absurd! 
He  swore  he  would  not  look  at  them  from 

earth, 

[146] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

I  hope  he  saw  them  on  his  way  to  heaven.'' 
Welser  in  Augsburg,  Clavius  at  Rome, 
Scoffed  at  the  fabled  moons  of  Jupiter, 
It  was  a  trick,  they  said.     He  had  made  a 

glass 

To  fool  the  world  with  false  appearances. 
Perhaps    the    lens    was    flawed.     Perhaps 

his  wits 
Were   wandering.     Anything   rather   than 

the  truth 
Which  might  disturb  the  mighty  in  their 

seat. 

"Let  Galileo  hold  his  own  opinions. 
I,  Clavius,  will  hold  mine." 

He  wrote  to  Kepler; 
"You,   Kepler,  are  the  first,  whose  open 

mind 

And  lofty  genius  could  accept  for  truth 
The  things  which  I  have  seen.     With  you 

for  friend, 
The  abuse  of  the  multitude  will  not  trouble 

me. 
Jupiter  stands  in  heaven  and  will  stand, 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Though  all  the  sycophants  bark  at  him. 

In  Pisa, 

Florence,  Bologna,  Venice,  Padua, 

Many  have  seen  the  moons.     These  wit- 
nesses 

Are  silent  and  uncertain.     Do  you  wonder? 

Most  of  them  could  not,  even  when  they 
saw  them, 

Distinguish  Mars  from  Jupiter.     Shall  we 
side 

With  Heraclitus  or  Democritus? 

I  think,  my  Kepler,  we  will  only  laugh 

At  this  immeasurable  stupidity. 

Picture  the  leaders  of  our  college  here. 

A  thousand  times  I  have  offered  them  the 
proof 

Of  their  own  eyes.     They  sleep  here,  like 
gorged  snakes, 

Refusing  even  to  look  at  planets,  moons, 

Or  telescope.     They  think  philosophy 

Is    all    in    books,    and    that    the    truth    is 
found 

Neither  in  nature,  nor  the  Universe, 
[148] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

But  in  comparing  texts.     How  you  would 

laugh 

Had  you  but  heard  our  first  philosopher 
Before   the   Grand   Duke,   trying   to   tear 

down 

And  argue  the  new  planets  out  of  heaven, 
Now  by  his  own  weird  logic  and  closed 

eyes 
And  now  by  magic  spells." 

How  could  he  help 

Despising  them  a  little?     It's  an  error 
Even  for  a  giant  to  despise  a  midge; 
For,   when   the  giant  reels  beneath   some 

stroke 
Of   fate,   the  buzzing  clouds  will   swoop 

upon  him, 

Cluster  and  feed  upon  his  bleeding  wounds, 
And   do   what  midges   can   to   sting   him 

blind. 
These    human    midges    have    not    missed 

their  chance. 
They  have  missed  no  smallest  spot  upon 

that  sun. 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

My  mother  was  not  married — they  have 

found — 

To  my  dear  father.     All  his  children,  then, 
And  doubtless  all  their  thoughts  are  evil, 

too; 
But  who  that  judged  him  ever  sought  to 

know 

Whether,  as  evil  sometimes  wears  the  cloak 
Of  virtue,  nobler  virtue  in  this  man 
Might  wear  that  outward  semblance  of  a 

sin? 

Yes,  even  you  who  love  me,  may  believe 
These  thoughts  are  born  of  my  own  tainted 

heart; 

And  yet  I  write  them,  kneeling  in  my  cell 
And  whisper  them  to  One  who  blesses  me 
Here,  from  His  Cross,  upon  the  bare  grey 

wall. 

So,  if  you  love  me,  bless  me  also,  you, 
By  helping  him.     Make  plain  to  all  you 

meet 
What  part  his  enemies  have  played  in  this. 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

How    some    one,    somehow,    altered    the 

command 

Laid  on  him  all  those  years  ago,  by  Rome, 
So  that  it  reads  to-day  as  if  he  vowed 
Never  to  think  or  breathe  that  this  round 

earth 
Moves   with    its   sister-planets    round    the 

sun. 

'Tis  true  he  promised  not  to  write  or  speak 
As  if  this  truth  were  'stablished  equally 
With  God's  eternal  laws;  and  so  he  wrote 
His  Dialogues,  reasoning  for  it,  and  against, 
And  gave  the  last  word  to  Simplicio, 
Saying  that  human  reason  must  bow  down 
Before  the  power  of  God. 

And  even  this 

His  enemies  have  twisted  to  a  sneer 
Against  the  Pope,  and  cunningly  declared 
Simplicio  to  be  Urban. 

Why,  my  friend, 
There  were   three  dolphins  on  the  title- 

Page, 

['SO 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Each  with  the  tail  of  another  in  its  mouth. 
The  censor  had  not  seen  this,   and  they 

swore 
It  held  some  hidden  meaning.     Then  they 

found 
The  same  three  dolphins  sprawled  on  all 

the  books 

Landini  printed  at  his  Florence  press. 
They  tried  another  charge. 

I  am  not  afraid 
Of  any  truth  that  they  can  bring  against 

him; 
But,  O,  my  friend,  I  more  than  fear  their 

lies. 

I  do  not  fear  the  justice  of  our  God; 
But  I  do  fear  the  vanity  of  men; 
Even  of  Urban;  not  His  Holiness, 
But  Urban,  the  weak  man,  who  may  resent, 
And  in  resentment  rush  half-way  to  meet 
This  cunning  lie  with  credence.     Vanity! 
O,  half  the  wrongs  on  earth  arise   from 

that  I 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Greed,  and  war's  pomp,  all  envy,  and  most 

hate, 
Are  born  of  that;  while  one  dear  humble 

heart, 
Beating  with  love  for  man,  between  two 

thieves, 
Proves   more   than    all    His    wounds    and 

miracles 

Our  Crucified  to  be  the  Son  of  God. 
Say  that  I  long  to  see  him;  that  my  prayers 
Knock  at  the  gates  of  mercy,  night  and  day. 
Urge  him  to  leave  the  judgment  now  with 

God 
And  strive  no  more. 

If  he  be  right,  the  stars 
Fight  for  him  in  their  courses.     Let  him 

bow 
His  poor,  dishonoured,  glorious,  old  grey 

head 
Before  this  storm,  and  then  come  home  to 

me. 
O,  quickly,  or  I  fear  'twill  be  too  late ; 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

For  I  am  dying.     Do  not  tell  him  this; 
But  I  must  live  to  hold  his  hands  again, 
And  know  that  he  is  safe. 
I   dare  not  leave  him,  helpless  and   half 

blind, 
Half  father  and  half  child,  to  rack  and 

cord. 
By  all  the  Christ  within  you,  save  him, 

you; 
And,  though  you  may  have  ceased  to  love 

me  now, 

One  faithful  shadow  in  your  own  last  hour 
Shall  watch  beside  you  till  all  shadows  die, 
And  heaven  unfold  to  bless  you  where  I 

failed. 

II 

(Scheiner  writes  to  Castelli,  after  the  Trial.) 

What  think  you  of  your  Galileo  now, 
Your  hero  that  like  Ajax  should  defy 
The    lightning?     Yesterday    I    saw    him 
stand 

[154] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Trembling  before  our  court  of  Cardinals, 
Trembling  before  the  colour  of  their  robes 
As  sheep,  before  the  slaughter,  at  the  sight 
And  smell  of  blood.     His  lips  could  hardly 

speak, 
And — mark  you — neither  rack,   nor  cord 

had  touched  him. 

Out  of  the  Inquisition's  five  degrees 
Of  rigor:  first,  the  public  threat  of  torture; 
Second,  the  repetition  of  the  threat 
Within    the    torture-chamber,    where    we 

show 

The  instruments  of  torture  to  the  accused; 
Third,    the   undressing   and   the   binding; 

fourth, 
Laying  him  on  the  rack;  then,  fifth  and 

last, 

Torture,  territio  realls;  out  of  these, 
Your  Galileo  reached  the  second  only, 
When,  clapping  both  his  hands  against  his 

sides, 
He  whined  about  a  rupture  that  forbade 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

These  extreme  courses.     Great  heroic  soul 
Dropped  like  a  cur  into  a  sea  of  terror, 
He  sank  right  under.     Then  he  came  up 

gasping, 

Ready  to  swear,  deny,  abjure,  recant, 
Anything,  everything!     Foolish,  weak,  old 

man, 

Who  had  been  so  proud  of  his  discoveries, 
And  dared  to  teach  his  betters.     How  we 

grinned 
To  see  him  kneeling  there  and  whispering, 

thus, 
Through  his  white  lips,  bending  his  old 

grey  head: 

(ilf  Galileo  Galilei,  born 
A  Florentine,  now  seventy  years  of  age, 
Kneeling  before  you,  having  before  mine 

eyes, 
And   touching  with   my    hands   the   Holy 

Gospels, 
Swear    that   I   always    have    believed,    do 

now, 

And  always  will  believe  what  Holy  Church 
[156] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Has  held  and  preached  and  taught  me  to 

believe; 

And  now,  'whereas  I  rightly  am  accused, 
Of  heresy,  having  falsely  held  the  sun 
To  be  the  centre  of  our  Universe, 
And  also  that  this  earth  i'y  not  the  centre, 
But  moves; 

I  most  il logically  desire 
Completely  to  expunge  this  dark  suspicion, 
So  reasonably  conceived.     I  now  abjure, 
Detest  and  curse  these  errors;  and  I  swear 
That   should   I   know    another,   friend   or 

foe, 

Holding  the  selfsame  heresy  as  myself, 
I  will  denounce  him  to  the  Inquisitor 
In  whatsoever  place  I  chance  to  be. 
So    help    me    God,    and    these   His    Holy 

Gospels, 
Which  with  my  hands  I  touch." 

You  will  observe 
His  promise  to  denounce.     Beware,  Cas- 

telli! 
What  think  you  of  your  Galileo  now? 

[i57] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 
III 

(Castelli  writes,  enclosing  Schemer's  letter,  to 
Campanella.) 

What  think   I?    This,— that  he  has   laid 

his  hands 

Like  Samson  on  the  pillars  of  our  world, 
And  one  more  trembling  utterance  such  as 

this 
Will  overwhelm  us  all. 

O,  Campanella, 

You  know  that  I  am  loyal  to  our  faith, 
As  Galileo  too  has  always  been. 
You  know  that  I  believe,  as  he  believes, 
In  the  one  Catholic  Apostolic  Church; 
Yet  there  are  many  times  when  I  could 

wish 
That   some   blind    Samson   would    indeed 

tear  down 
All  this  proud  temporal  fabric,  made  with 

hands, 
And  that,  once  more,  we  suffered  with  our 

Lord, 

[158] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Were  persecuted,  crucified  with  Him. 
I  tell  you,  Campanella,  on  that  day 
When  Galileo  faced  our  Cardinals, 
A  veil  was  rent  for  me.     There,  in  one 

flash, 

I  saw  the  eternal  tragedy,  transformed 
Into  new  terms.     I   saw  the   Christ  once 

more, 

Before  the  court  of  Pilate.     Peter  there 
Denied  Him  once  again;  and,  as  for  me, 
Never  has  all  my  soul  so  humbly  knelt 
To  God  in  Christ,  as  when  that  sad  old 

man 
Bowed  his  grey  head,  and  knelt — at  seventy 

years — 
To  acquiesce,   and  shake  the  world  with 

shame. 
He  shall  not  strive  or  cry!     Strange,  is  it 

not, 
How    nearly    Scheiner — even    amidst    his 

hate — 
Quoted  the  Prophets?     Do  we  think  this 

world 

[159] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

So  greatly  bettered,  that  the  ancient  cry, 
"Despised,    rejected,"    hails    our    God    no 
more? 

IV 

(Celeste  writes  to  her  father  in  his  imprisonment  at 
Siena. ) 

Dear  father,  it  will  seem  a  thousand  years 

Until  I  see  you  home  again  and  well. 

I  would  not  have  you  doubt  that  all  this 

time 

I  have  prayed  for  you  continually.     I  saw 
A  copy  of  your  sentence.     I  was  grieved ; 
And  yet  it  gladdened  me,  for  I  found  a  way 
To  be  of  use,  by  taking  on  myself 
Your  penance.     Therefore,  if  you  fail  in 

this, 

If  you  forget  it — and  indeed,  to  save  you 
The  trouble  of  remembering  it — your  child 
Will  do  it  for  you. 

Ah,  could  she  do  more ! 
How  willingly  would  your  Celeste  endure 
[i  60] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

A  straiter  prison  than  she  lives  in  now 
To  set  you  free. 

"A  prison,"  I  have  said* 
And  yet,  if  you  were  here,  'twould  not  be 

so. 
When  you  were  pent  in  Rome,  I  used  to 

say, 

"Would  he  were  at  Siena!"  God  fulfilled 
That  wish.  You  are  at  Siena ;  and  I  now 

say 
Would  he  were  at  Arcetri. 

So  perhaps 

Little  by  little,  angels  can  be  wooeol 
Each  day,  by  some  new  prayer  of  mine  or 

yours, 

To  bring  you  wholly  back  to  me,  and  save 
Some  few  of  the  flying  days  that  yet  remain. 
You  see,  these  other  Nuns  have  each  their 

friend, 

Their  patron  Saint,  their  ever  near  devoto, 
To  whom  they  tell  their  joys  and  griefs; 

but  I 

Have  only  you,  dear  father,  and  if  you 
[161] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

« 

Were  only  near  me,  I  could  want  no  mrore. 
Your  garden  looks  as  if  it  missed  your  love. 
The  unpruned  branches  lean  against  the 

wall 
To  look  for  you.    The  walks  run  wild  with 

flowers. 
Even  your  watch-tower  seems  to  wait  for 

you; 
And,  though  the  fruit  is  not  so  good  this 

year 
(The  vines  were  hurt  by  hail,  I  think,  and 

thieves 
Have  climbed  the  wall  too  often  for  the 

pears), 

The  crop  of  peas  is  good,  and  only  waits 
Your  hand  to  gather  it. 

In  the  dovecote,  too, 
You'll   find   some   plump   young   pigecns. 

We  must  make 
A  feast  for  your  return. 

In  my  small  plot, 
Here  at  the  Convent,  better  watched  than 

yours, 

[162] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

I  raised  a  little  harvest.     With  the  price 
I  got  for  it,  I  had  three  Masses  said 
For  my  dear  father's  sake. 


(Galileo  writes  to  his  friend  Castelli,  after  his  return 
to  Arcetri.) 

Castelli,  O  Castelli,  she  is  dead. 

I  found  her  driving  death  back  with  her 

soul 
Till  I  should  come. 

I  could  not  even  see 
Her  face. — These  useless  eyes  had  spent 

their  power 
On  distant  worlds,  and  lost  that  last  faint 

look 
Of  love  on  earth. 

I  am  in  the  dark,  Castelli, 
Utterly  and  irreparably  blind. 
The  Universe  which  once  these  outworn 

eyes 

Enlarged  so  far  beyond  its  ancient  bounds 
[163] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Is    henceforth    shrunk    into    that    narrow 

space 
Which  I  myself  inhabit. 

Yet  I  found 
Even   in   the  dark,   her  tears  against  my 

face, 
Her  thin  soft  childish   arms   around   my 

neck, 

And  her  voice  whispering  .  .  .  love,  un- 
dying love ; 

Asking  me,  at  this  last,  to  tell  her  true, 
If  we  should  meet  again. 

Her  trust  in  me 
Had  shaken  her  faith  in  what  my  judges 

held; 

And,  as  I  felt  her  fingers  clutch  my  hand, 
Like    a    child    drowning,    "Tell    me    the 

truth,"  she  said, 
"Before    I    lose    the   light   of   your   dear 

face"— 
It  seemed  so  strange  that  dying  she  could 

see  me 

[164] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

While  I  had  lost  her, — "tell  me,  before  I 

go-" 
"Believe  in  Love,"  was  all  my  soul  could 

breathe. 
I    heard    no    answer.      Only    I    felt    her 

hand 
Clasp  mine  and  hold  it  tighter.     Then  she 

died, 
And   left  me  to   my  darkness.     Could   I 

guess 

At  unseen  glories,  in  this  deeper  night, 
Make     new     discoveries     of     profounder 

realms, 
Within  the  soul?    O,  could  I  find   Him 

there, 

Rise  to  Him  through  His  harmonies  of  law 
And  make  His  will  my  own! 

This  much,  at  least, 
I    know    already,    that — in    some    strange 

way — 
His   law   implies   His   love;    for,    failing 

that 

[165] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

All  grows  discordant,  and  the  primal  Power 
Ignobler  than  His  children. 

So  I  trust 
One    day    to    find    her,    waiting    for    me 

still, 
When  all  things  are  made  new. 

I  raise  this  torch 
Of  knowledge.     It  is  one  with  my  right 

hand, 
And  the  dark  sap  that  keeps  it  burning 

flows 

Out  of  my  heart;  and  yet,  for  all  my  faith, 
It  shows  me  only  darkness. 

Was  I  wrong? 

Did  I  forget  the  subtler  truth  of  Rome 
And,  in  my  pride,  obscure  the  world's  one 

light? 

Did  I  subordinate  to  this  moving  earth 
Our  swiftlier-moving  God? 

O,  my  Celeste, 
Once,  once  at  least,  you  knew  far  more 

than  I ; 

And  she  is  dead,  Castelli,  she  is  dead, 
[i  66] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 
VI 

(Viviani,  many  years  later,  writes  to  a  friend  in 
England. ) 

I  was  his  last  disciple,  as  you  say 
I  went  to  him,  at  seventeen  years  of  age, 
And  offered  him  my  hands  and  eyes  to  use, 
When,  voicing  the  true  mind  and  heart  of 

Rome, 

Father  Castelli,  his  most  faithful  friend, 
Wrote,  for  my  master,  that  compassionate 

plea; 

The  noblest  eye  that  Nature  ever  made 
Is  darkened;  one  so  exquisitely  dowered, 
So  delicate  in  pow-er  that  it  beheld 
More  than  all  other  eyes  in  ages  gone 
And  opened  the  eyes  of  all  that  are  to  come. 
But,  out  of  England,  even  then,  there  shone 
The  first  ethereal  promise  of  light 
That   crowns   my   master    dead.     Well    I 

recall 
That  day  of  days.    There  was  no  faintest 

breath 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Among    his    garden    cypress-trees.      They 

dreamed 

Dark,  on  a  sky  too  beautiful  for  tears, 
And  the  first  star  was  trembling  overhead, 
When,  quietly  as  a  messenger  from  heaven, 
Moving   unseen,    through   his   own   purer 

realm, 

Amongst  the  shadows  of  our  mortal  world, 
A  young  man,  with  a  strange  light  on  his 

face 

Knocked  at  the  door  of  Galileo's  hous£. 
His  name  was  Milton. 

By  the  hand  of  God, 

He,  the  one  living  soul  on  earth  with  power 
To  read  the  starry  soul  of  this  blind  man, 
Was  led  through  Italy  to  his  prison  door. 
He  looked  on  Galileo,  touched  his  hand  .  . . 
Of  dark,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze  of  noon, 
Irrecoverably  dark.  .  .  . 

In  after  days, 

He  wrote  it;  but  it  pulsed  within  him  then; 
And  Galileo  rising  to  his  feet 
And  turning  on  him  those  unseeing  eyes 
[1*8] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

That   had   searched    heaven   and    seen   so 
many  worlds, 

Said  to  him,  "You  have  found  me." 

Often  he  told  me  in  those  last  sad  months 

Of    how   your    grave   young   island    poet 
brought 

Peace  to  him,  with  the  knowledge  that,  far 
off, 

In   other   lands,    the    truth    he   had    pro- 
claimed 

Was  gathering  power. 

Soon  after,  death  unlocked 

His  prison,  and  the  city  that  he  loved, 

Florence,  his  town  of  flowers,  whose  gates 
in  life 

He  was  forbid  to  pass,  received  him  dead. 

You  write  to  me  from  England,  that  his 

name 

Is  now  among  the  mightiest  in  the  world, 
And  in  his  name  I  thank  you. 

I  am  old ; 

And  I  was  very  young  when,  long  ago, 
[169] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

I  stood  beside  his  poor  dishonoured  grave 
Where  hate  denied  him  even  an  epitaph; 
And  I  have  seen,  slowly  and  silently, 
His  purer  fame  arising,  like  a  moon 
In  marble  on  the  twilight  of  those  aisles 
At  Santa  Croce,  where  the  dread  decree 
Was  read  against  him. 

Now,  against  two  wrongs, 
Let    me    defend    two    victims:    first,    the 

Church 
Whom  many  have  vilified  for  my  master's 

doom; 

And  second,  Galileo,  whom  they  reproach 
Because  they  think  that  in  his  blind  old  age 
He  might  with  one  great  eagle's  glance 

have  cowed 
His  judges,    played   the   hero,    raised   his 

hands 
Above    his    head,    and    posturing    like    a 

mummer 

Cried  (as  one  empty  rumour  now  declares) 
After  his  recantation — yet,  it  moves! 
Out  of  this  wild  confusion,  fourfold  wrongs 
[170] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Are  heaped  on  both  sides. — I  would  fain 

bring  peace, 

The  peace  of  truth  to  both  before  I  die; 
And,  as  I  hope,  rest  at  my  master's  feet. 
It  was  not  Rome  that  tried  to  murder 

truth ; 

But  the  blind  hate  and  vanity  of  man. 
Had  Galileo  but  concealed  the  smile 
With  which,  like  Socrates,  he  answered 

fools, 
They  would  not,  in  the  name  of  Christ, 

have  mixed 
This  hemlock  in  his  chalice. 

O  pitiful 

Pitiful  human  hearts  that  must  deny 
Their  own  unfolding  heavens,  for  one  light 

word 
Twisted  by  whispering  malice. 

Did  he  mean 

Simplicio,  in  his  dialogues,  for  the  Pope? 
Doubtful  enough— the  name  was  borrowed 

straight 
From  older  dialogues. 


THE  TORCH-BEAKERS 

If  he  gave  one  thought 
Of  Urban's  to  Simplicio — you  know  well 
How  composite  are  all  characters  in  books, 
How  authors  find  their  colours  here  and 

there, 
And  paint  both  saints   and  villains  from 

themselves. 
No  matter.     This  was  Urban.     Make   it 

clear. 

Simplicio  means  a  simpleton.     The  saints 
Are  aroused  by   ridicule   to  most  human 

wrath. 
Urban  was  once  his  friend.     This  hint  of 

ours 

Kills  all  of  that.     And  so  we  mortals  close 
The  doors  of  Love  and  Knowledge  on  the 

world. 
And  so,   for  many  an   age,   the   name   of 

Christ 
Has  been  misused  by  man  to  mask  man's 

hate. 
How  should  the  Church  escape,  then?     I 

who  loved 

[172] 


,  WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

j 

4  My  master,  know  he  had  no  truer  friend 
!%  Than  many  of  those  true  servants  of  the 

Church, 

Fathers  and  priests  who,  in  their  lowlier 
3  sphere, 

Moved  nearer  than  her  cardinals  to   the 

Christ. 
These  were  the  very  Rome,  and  held  her 

keys. 
Those  who  charge  Rome  with  hatred  of 

the  light 
Would  charge  the  sun  with  darkness,  and 

accuse 
This  dome  of  sky  for  all  the  blood-red 

wrongs 
That  men   commit   beneath   it.     Art   and 

song 
That  found  her  once  in  Europe  their  sole 

shrine 
And  sanctuary  absolve  her  from  that  stain. 

But  there's  this  other  charge  against  my 
friend, 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

And  master,  Galileo.     It  is  brought 

By  friends,  made  sharper  by  their  pity  and 

grief, 

The  charge  that  he  refused  his  martyrdom 
And  so  denied  his  own  high  faith. 

Whose  faith, — 
His  friends',  his  Protestant  followers',  or 

his  own? 
Faced   by   the   torture,   that   sublime   old 

man 
Was    still    a    faithful    Catholic,    and    his 

thought 

Plunged   deeper   than  his   Protestant   fol- 
lowers knew. 

His  aim  was  not  to  strike  a  blow  at  Rome 
But  to  confound  his  enemies.     He  believed 
As  humbly  as  Castelli  or  Celeste 
That   there   is   nothing   absolute   but   that 

Power 
With  which  his  Church  confronted  him. 

To  this 
He  bowed  his  head,   acknowledging  that 

his  light 

[-74] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Was  darkness;  but  affirming,  all  the  more, 
That  Ptolemy's  light  was  even  darker  yet. 
Read  your  own  Protestant  Milton,  who 

derived 
His  mighty  argument  from  my  master's 

lips: 

"Whether  the  sun  predominant  in  heaven 
Rise  on  the  earth,  or  earth  rise  on  the  sun; 
Leave  them  to  God  above;  Him  serve  and 

fear." 
Just    as    in    boyhood,    when    my    master 

watched 

The  swinging  lamp  in  the  cathedral  there 
At  Pisa;  and,  by  one  finger  on  his  pulse, 
Found    that,    although    the   great   bronze 

miracle  swung 
Through    ever-shortening    spaces,    yet    it 

moved 
More  slowly,  and  so  still  swung  in  equal 

times ; 

He  straight  devised  another  boon  to  man, 
Those    pulse-clocks    which    by    many    a 

fevered  bed 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Our  doctors   use;   dreamed   of   that  time- 
piece, too, 
Whose    punctual    swinging   pendulum   on 

earth 

Measures  the  starry  periods,  and  to-day 
Talks  peacefully  to  children  by  the  fire 
Like  an  old  grandad  full  of  ancient  tales, 
Remembering  endless  ages,  and  foretelling 
Eternities  to  come;  but,  all  the  while 
There,    in    the    dim    cathedral,    he    knew 

well, 
That  dreaming  youngster,  with  his  tawny 

mane 

Of  red-gold  hair,  and  deep  ethereal  eyes, 
What  odorous  clouds  of  incense  round  him 

rose; 
Was  conscious  in   the   dimness,   of   great 

throngs 
Kneeling  around  him;  shared  in  his  own 

heart 

The  music  and  the  silence  and  the  cry, 
Q,  salutarls  hostia! — so  now, 
There  was  no  mortal  conflict  in  his  mind 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Between  his  dream-blocks  and  things  abso- 
lute, 

And  one  far  voice,  most  absolute  of  all, 
Feeble  with  suffering,  calling  night  and  day 
"Return,  return',"  the  voice  of  his  Celeste. 
All  these  things  co-existed,  and  the  less 
Were    comprehended,    like    the    swinging 

lamp, 

Within  that  great  cathedral  of  his  soul. 
Often  he  bade  me,  in  that  desolate  house 
//  Giojello,  of  old  a  jewel  of  light, 
Read  to  him  one  sad  letter,  till  he  knew 
The  most  o-f   it  by   heart,   and   while  he 

walked 

His  garden,  leaning  on  my  arm,  at  times 
I  think  he  quite  forgot  that  I  was  there ; 
For  he  would  quietly  murmur  it  to  him- 
self, 

As  if  she  had  sent  it,  half  an  hour  ago: 
"Now,    with    this    little    winter's    gift   of 

fruit 

I   send  you,   father,   from  our  southward 
wall, 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Our  convent's   rarest  flower,   a  Christmas 

rose. 
At  this  cold  season,  it  should  please  you 

much, 

Seeing  how  rare  it  is ;  but,  with  the  rose, 
You  must  accept  its  thorns,  which  bring 

to  mind 
Our  Lord's  own  bitter  Passion.     Its  green 

leaves 
Image  the  hope  that  through  His  Passion 

we, 

After  this  winter  of  our  mortal  life, 
May  find  the  beauty  of  an  eternal  spring 
In  heaven." 

Praise  me  the  martyr,  out  of  whose  agonies 
Some  great  new  hope  is  born,  but  not  the 

fool 
Who  starves  his  heart  to  prove  what  eyes 

can  see 
And     intellect     confirm    throughout    the 

world. 
Why  must  he  follow  the  idiot  schoolboy 

code, 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Torture  his  soul  to  reinforce  the  sight 

Of  those  that  closed  their  eyes  and  would 

not  see. 

To  your  own  men  of  science,  fifty  turns 
Of  the  thumbscrew  would  not  prove  that 

earth  revolved. 

Call  it  Italian  subtlety  if  you  will, 
I  say  his  intricate  cause  could  not  be  won 
By  blind  heroics.     Much  that  his  enemies 

challenged 
Was  not  yet  wholly  proven,   though  his 

mind 
Had  leapt  to  a  certainty.     He  must  leave 

the  rest 
To  those  that  should  come  after,  swift  and 

young,— 
Those  runners  with  the  torch  for  whom  he 

longed 

As  his  deliverers.     Had  he  chosen  death 
Before    his    hour,    his    proofs    had    been 

obscured 
For  many  a  year.     His  respite  gave  him 

time 

[179] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

To  push  new  pawns  out,  in  the  blindfold 

play 
Of  those  last  months,  and  checkmate,  not 

the  Church 

But  those  that  hid  behind  her.     He  be- 
lieved 
His  truth  was  all  harmonious  with  her 

own. 
How    could    he    choose    between    them? 

Must  he  die 

To  affirm  a  discord  that  himself  denied? 
On  many  a  point,  he  was  less  sure  than  we: 
But  surer  far  of  much  that  we  forget. 
The  movements  that  he  saw  he  could  but 

judge 
By  some  fixed  point  in  space.    He  chose 

the  sun. 
Could  this  be  absolute?     Could  he  then  be 

sure 
That  this  great  sun  did  not  with  all  its 

worlds 
Move    round    a    deeper    centre?    What 

became 

[i  80] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Of  your  Copernicus  then?     Could  he  be 

sure 
Of    any    unchanging    centre,    whence    to 

judge 

This  myriad-marching  universe,  but  one — 
The  absolute  throne  of  God. 

Affirming  this 

Eternal  Rock,  his  own  uncertainties 
Became   more   certain,    and   although    his 

lips 
Breathed  not  a  syllable  of  it,  though  he 

stood 

Silent  as  earth  that  also  seemed  so  still, 
The  very  silence  thundered,  yet  it  moves! 

He  held   to  what  he  knew,   secured   his 

work 
Through  feeble  hands  like  mine,  in  other 

lands, 

Not  least  in  England,  as  I  think  you  know. 
For,  partly  through  your  poet,  as  I  believe, 
When  his  great  music  rolled  upon  your 

skies, 

[181] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

New  thoughts  were  kindled  in  the  general 

mind. 

'Twas  at  Arcetri  that  your  Milton  gained 
The    first   great   glimpse   of   his   celestial 

realm. 

Picture  him, — still  a  prisoner  of  our  light, 
Closing  his  glorious  eyes — that  in  the  dark, 
He  might  behold  this  wheeling  universe, — 
The  planets  gilding  their  ethereal  horns 
With    sun-fire.     Many   a    pure    immortal 

phrase 

In  his  own  work,  as  I  have  pondered  it, 
Lived  first  upon  the  lips  of  him  whose 

eyes 
Were  darkened  first, — in  whom,  too,  Milton 

found 

That  Samson  Agonistes,  not  himself, 
As  many  have  thought,  but  my  dear  master 

dead. 
These  are  a  part  of  England's  memories 

now, 

The  music  blown  upon  her  sea-bright  air 
When,  in  the  year  of  Galileo's  death, 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Newton,  the  mightiest  of  the  sons  of  light, 
Was  born  to  lift  the  splendour  of  this  torch 
And  carry  it,  as  I  heard  that  Tycho  said 
Long  since   to  'Kepler,   "carry  it  out  of 

sight, 

Into  the  great  new  age  I  must  not  know, 
Into  the  great  new  realm  I  must  not  tread." 


V 

NEWTON 


IF  I  saw  farther,  'twas  because  I  stood 
On  giant  shoulders,"  wrote  the  king  of 
thought, 

Too  proud  of  his  great  line  to  slight  the 
toils 

Of  his  forebears.     He  turned  to  their  dim 
past, 

Their  fading  victories  and  their  fond  de- 
feats, 

And  knelt  as  at  an  altar,  drawing  all 

Their  strengths  into  his  own;  and  so  went 
forth 

With  all  their  glory  shining  in  his  face, 

To  win  new  victories  for  the  age  to  come. 
[184] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

So,  where  Copernicus  had  destroyed  the 

dream 
We    called    our    world;    where    Galileo 

watched 
Those    ancient    firmaments    melt,    a    thin 

blue  smoke 

Into  a  vaster  night;  where  Kepler  heard 
Only  stray  fragments,  isolated  chords 
Of  that  tremendous  music  which  should 

bind 

All    things   anew   in   one,    Newton    arose 
And  carried  on  their  fire. 

Around  him  reeled 
Through  lingering  fumes  of  hate  and  clouds 

of  doubt, 

Lit  by  the  afterglow  of  the  Civil  War, 
The  dissolute  throngs  of  that  Walpurgis 

night 

Where  all  the  cynical  spirits  that  deny 
Danced  with  the  vicious  lusts  that  drown 

the  soul 
In    flesh    too    gross    for    Circe    or    her 

swine. 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

But,  in  his  heart,   he  heard   one  instant 

voice. 
"On  'with  the  torch  once  more,  make  all 

things  new, 
Build  the  new  heaven  and  earth,  and  savt 

the  world." 

Ah,    but   the    infinite    patience,    the    long 

months 

Lavished  on  tasks  that,  to  the  common  eye, 
Were  insignificant,  never  to  be  crowned 
With  great  results,  or  even  with   earth's 

rewards. 
Could  Rembrandt  but  have  painted  him, 

in  those  hours 

Making  his  first  analysis  of  light 
Alone,  there,  in  his  darkened  Cambridge 

room 

At  Trinity!     Could  he  have  painted,  too, 
The    secret   glow,    the   mystery,    and    the 

power, 
The  sense  of  all  the  thoughts  and  unseen 

spires 

[186] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

That  soared  to  heaven  around   him! 

He  stood  there, 

Obscure,  unknown,  the  shadow  of  a  man 

In  darkness,  like  a  grey  dishevelled  ghost, 

— Bare-throated,    down    at   heel,    his    last 
night's  supper 

Littering  his  desk,   untouched;  his  glim- 
mering face, 

Under  his  tangled  hair,  intent  and  still, — 

Preparing  our  new  universe. 

He  caught 

The  sunbeam  striking  thiough  that  bullet- 
hole 

In  his  closed  shutter — a  round  white  spot 
of  light 

Upon  a  small  dark  screen. 

He  interposed 

A  prism  of  glass.     He  saw  the  sunbeam 
break 

And  spread  upon  the  screen  its  rainbow 
band 

Of  disentangled  colours,  all  in  scale 

Like  notes  in  music;  first,  the  violet  ray, 
£187] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Then  indigo,   trembling  softly  into  blue; 
Then  green  and  yellow,  quivering  side  by 

side; 

Then  orange,  mellowing  richly  into  red. 
Then,    in    the   screen,    he    made    a    small 

round  hole 
Like  to  the  first;   and   through   it  passed 

once  more 
Each   separate   coloured    ray.     He    let   it 

strike 

Another  prism  of  glass,  and  saw  each  hue 
Bent  at  a  different  angle  from  its  path, 
The  red  the  least,  the  violet  ray  the  most; 
But  all  in  scale  and  order,  all  precise 
As  notes  in  music.     Last,  he  took  a  lens, 
And,  passing  through  it  all  those  coloured 

rays, 

Drew  them  together  again,  remerging  all 
On  that  dark  screen,  in  one  white  spot  of 

light. 

So,  watching,  testing,  proving,  he  resolved 
The  seeming  random  glories  of  our  day 
[188] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Into  a  constant  harmony,  and  found 
How  in  the  whiteness  of  the  sunlight  sleep 
Compounded,  all  the  colours  of  the  world. 
He  saw  how  raindrops  in  the  clouds  of 

heaven 
Breaking  the  light,  revealed  that  sevenfold 

arch 
Of   colours,   ranged   as  on  his   own   dark 

screen, 
Though  now  they  spanned  the  mountains 

and  wild  seas. 
Then,  where  that  old-world  order  had  gone 

down 

Beneath  a  darker  deluge,  he  beheld 
Gleams  of  the  great  new  order  and   re- 
called 
• — Fraught  with  new  meaning  and  a  deeper 

hope — 
That  covenant  which  God  made  with  all 

mankind 

Throughout  all  generations:  I  will  set 
My  bow  in  the  cloud,  that  henceforth  ye 

may  know 

[189] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

How  deeper  than   the  wreckage   of  your 

dreams 
Abides  My  law,  in  beauty  and  in  power. 

II 

Yet  for  that  exquisite  balance  of  the  mind, 
He,  too,  must  pay  the  price.     He  stood 

alone 

Bewildered,  at  the  sudden  assault  of  fools 
On  this,  his  first  discovery. 

"I  have  lost 

The  most  substantial  blessing  of  my  quiet 
To  follow  a  vain  shadow. 

I  would  fain 

Attempt  no  more.     So  few  can  understand, 
Or  read  one  thought.     So  many  are  ready 

at  once 
To    swoop    and    sting.     Indeed    I    would 

withdraw 

For  ever  from  philosophy."     So  he  wrote 
In  grief,  the  mightiest  mind  of  that  new 

age. 
Let  those  who'd  stone  the  Roman  Curia 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

For  all  the  griefs  that  Galileo  knew 
Remember  the  dark  hours  that  well-nigh 

quenched 
The  splendour  of  that  spirit.     He  could 

not  sleep. 

Yet,  with  that  patience  of  the  God  in  man 
That  still  must  seek  the  Splendour  whence 

it  came, 
Through  midnight  hours  of  mockery  and 

defeat, 

In  loneliness  and  hopelessness  and  tears, 
He  laboured  on.     He  had  no  power  to  see 
How,    after    many   years,    when    he    was 

dead, 
Out   of   this   new   discovery   men    should 

make 

An  instrument  to  explore  the  farthest  stars 
And,  delicately  dividing  their  white  rays, 
Divine  what  metals  in  their  beauty  burned, 
Extort  red  secrets  from  the  heart  of  Mars, 
Or  measure  the  molten  iron  in  the  sun. 
He  bent  himself  to  nearer,  lowlier,  tasks; 
And  seeing,  first,  that  those  deflected  rays, 
[191] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Though  it  were  only  by  the  faintest  bloom 
Of  colour,  imperceptible  to  our  eyes, 
Must  dim  the  vision  of  Galileo's  glass, 
He  made  his  own  new  weapon  of  the  sky, — 
That  first  reflecting  telescope  which  should 

hold 

In  its  deep  mirror,  as  in  a  breathless  pool 
The  undistorted  image  of  a  star. 

Ill 

In  that  deep  night  where  Galileo  groped 
Like  a  blind  giant  in  dreams  to  find  what 

power 
Held  moons  and  planets  to  their  constant 

road 
Through  vastness,  ordered  like  a  moving 

fleet; 
What  law  so  married  them  that  they  could 

not  clash 
Or  sunder,   but  still   kept  their  rhythmic 

pace 

As  if  those  ancient  tales  indeed  were  true 
[192] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And  some  great  angel  helmed  each  gliding 

sphere; 
Many  had  sought  an  answer.     Many  had 

caught 
Gleams  of  the  truth;  and  yet,  as  when  a 

torch 

Is  waved  above  a  multitude  at  night, 
And  shows  wild  streams  of  faces,  aU  con- 
fused, 

But  not  the  single  law  that  knits  them  all 
Into  an  ordered  nation,  so  our  skies 
For  all  those  fragmentary  glimpses,  whirled 
In  chaos,  till  one  eagle-spirit  soared, 
Found  the  one  law  that  bound  them  all 

in  one, 

And  through  that  awful  unity  upraised 
The  soul  to  That  which  made  and  guides 
them  all. 

Did   Newtori,    dreaming   in   his   orchard 

there 

Beside  the  dreaming  Witham,  see  the  moon 
[i93] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Burn    like    a    huge    gold    apple    in    the 

boughs 
And  wonder  why  should  moons  not  fall 

like  fruit? 

Or  did  he  see  as  those  old  tales  declare 
(Those  fairy-tales  that  gather  form  and 

fire 
Till,   in  one  jewel,   they  pack  the  whole 

bright  world) 
A    ripe    fruit    fall    from    some    immortal 

tree 
Of  knowledge,  while  he  wondered  at  what 

height 
Would  this  earth-magnet  lose  its  darkling 

power? 
Would  not  the  fruit  fall  earthward,  though 

it  grew 
High  o'er  the  hills  as  yonder  brightening 

cloud? 
Would  not  the  selfsame  power  that  plucked 

the  fruit 
Draw  the  white  moon,  then,  sailing  in  the 

blue? 

[i94] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Then,  in  one  flash,  as  light  and  song  are 

born, 
And  the  soul  wakes,  he  saw  it — this  dark 

earth 
Holding   the    moon    that   else   would    fly 

through  space 

To  her  sure  orbit,  as  a  stone  is  held 
In  a  whirled  sling;  and,  by  the  selfsame 

power, 

Her  sister  planets  guiding  all  their  moons; 
While,  exquisitely  balanced  and  controlled 
In  one  va'st  system,  moons  and  planets 

wheeled 
Around  one  sovran  majesty,  the  sun. 

IV 

Light  and  more  light!    The  spark  from 

heaven  was  there, 
The  flash  of  that  reintegrating  fire 
Flung  from  heaven's  altars,  where  all  light 

is  born, 

To  feed  the  imagination  of  mankind 
[i95] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

With  vision,  and  reveal  all  worlds  in  one. 

But  let  no  dreamer  dream  that  his  great 
work 

Sprang,  armed,  like  Pallas  from  the  Thun- 
derer's brain. 

With  infinite  patience  he  must  test  and 
prove 

His  vision  now,  in  those  clear  courts  of 
Truth 

Whose  absolute  laws   (bemocked  by  shal- 
lower minds 

As  less  than  dreams,  less  than  the  faithless 
faith 

That  fears  the  Truth,  lest  Truth  should 
slay  the  dream) 

Are  man's  one  guide  to  his  transcendent 
heaven ; 

For  there's  no  wandering  splendour  in  the 
soul, 

But  in  the  highest  heaven  of  all  is  one 

With   absolute   reality.     None  can   climb 

Back  to  that  Fount  of  Beauty  but  through 
pain. 

[196] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Long,  long  he  toiled,  comparing  first  the 

curves 
Traced  by  the  cannon-ball  as  it  soared  and 

fell 
With  that  great  curving  road  across  the 

sky 
Traced  by  the  sailing  moon. 

Was  earth  a  loadstone 
Holding  them  to  their  paths  by  that  dark 

force 
Whose  mystery  men  have  cloaked  beneath 

a  nrame? 
Yet,  when  he  came  to  test  and  prove,  he 

found 

That  all  the  great  deflections  of  the  moon, 
Her    shining    cadences    from    the     path 

direct, 

Were  utterly  inharmonious  with  the  law 
Of  that  dark  force,  at  such  a  distance  act- 
ing, 

Measured  from  earth's  own  centre.  .  .  . 
For  three   long  years,   Newton   withheld 

his  hope 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Until   that   day  when   light  w.as   brought 

from  France, 

New  light,  new  hope,  in  one  small  glisten- 
ing fact, 

Clear-cut  as  any  diamond;  and  to  him 
Loaded  with  all  significance,  like  the  point 
Of  light  that  shows  where  constellations 

burn. 

Picard  in  France — all  glory  to  her  name 
Who  is  herself  a  light  among  all  lands — 
Had  measured  earth's  diameter  once  more 
With  exquisite  precision. 

To  the  throng, 

Those  few  corrected  ciphers,  his  results, 
Were  less  than  nothing;  yet  they  changed 

the  world. 

For  Newton  seized  them  and,  with  trem- 
bling hands, 

Began  to  work  his  problem  out  anew. 
Then,  then,  as  on  the  page  those  figures 

turned 

To  hieroglyphs  of  heaven,  and  he  beheld 

The  moving  moon,  with  awful  cadences 

[198] 


Falling  into  the  path  his  law  ordained, 
Even   to   the   foot   and   second,   his   hand 

shook 
And  dropped  the  pencil. 

"Work  it  out  for  me," 
He  cried  to  those  around  him;   for  the 

weight 

Of  that  celestial  music  overwhelmed  him; 
And,   on   his   page,    those   burning  hiero- 
glyphs 
Were    Thrones     and     Principalities     and 

Powers  .  .  . 

For  far  beyond,  immeasurably  far 
Beyond  our  sun,  he  saw  that  river  of  suns 
We  call  the  Milky  Way,   that  glittering 

host 
Powdering  the  night,  each  grain  of  solar 

blaze 

Divided  from  its  neighbour  by  a  gulf 
Too  wide  for  thought  to  measure;  each  a 

sun 
Huger   than  ours,   with   its   own  fleet  of 

worlds, 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Visible  and  invisible.  Those  bright  throngs 
That  seemed  dispersed  like  a  defeated  host 
Through  blindly  wandering  skies,  now,  at 

the  word 
Of  one  great  dreamer,  height  o'er  height 

revealed 

Hints  of  a  vaster  order,  and  moved  on 
In  boundless  intricacies  of  harmony 
Around  one  centre,  deeper  than  all  suns, 
The  burning  throne  of  God. 


He  could  not  sleep.     That  intellect,  whose 

wings 
Dared  the  cold  ultimate  heights  of  Space 

and  Time 
Sank,   like  a  wounded  eagle,  with  dazed 

eyes 
Back,    headlong    through    the    clouds    to 

throb  on  earth. 
What  shaft  had  pierced  him?     That  which 

also  pierced 

[200] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

His  great  forebears — the  hate  of  little  men. 
They  flocked  around  him,  and  they  flung 

their  dust 

Into  the  sensitive  eyes  and  laughed  to  see 
How  dust  could  blind  them. 

If  one  prickling  grain 
Could  so  put  out  his  vision  and  so  torment 
That  delicate  brain,  what  weakness!  How 

the  mind 
That  seemed  to  dwarf  us,  dwindles!     Is  he 

mad? 
So    buzzed    the    fools,    whose    ponderous 

mental  wheels 
Nor  dust,  nor  grit,  nor  stones,  nor  rocks 

could  irk 
Even  for  an  instant. 

Newton  could  not  sleep, 
But  all  that  careful  malice  could  design 
Was  blindly  fostered  by  well-meaning  folly, 
And  great  sane  folk  like  Mr.  Samuel  Pepys 
Canvassed  his  weakness  and  slept  sound 

all  night. 

For  little  Samuel  with  his  rosy  face 
[201] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Came  chirping  into  a  coffee-house  one  day 
Like  a  plump   robin,   "Sir,   the  unhappy 

state 

Of  Mr.  Isaac  Newton  grieves  me  much. 
Last  week  I  had  a  letter  from  him,  rilled 
With  strange  complainings,  very  curious 

hints, 
Such    as,    I    grieve    to   say,    are    common 

signs 
— I  have  observed  it  often — of  worse  to 

come. 
He   said    that   he   could   neither   eat   nor 

sleep 

Because  of  all  the  embroilments  he  was  in, 
Hinting   at   nameless    enemies.     Then   he 

begged 

My  pardon,  very  strangely.     I  believe 
Physicians  would  confirm  me  in  my  fears. 
'Tis    very    sad.  .  .  .  Only    last    night,    I 

found 

Among  my  papers  certain  lines  composed 
By — whom    d'you    think? — My    lord    of 

Halifax 

[202] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

(Or  so  dear  Mrs.  Porterhouse  assured  me) 
Expressing,  sir,   the  uttermost  satisfaction 
In  Mr.  Newton's  talent.     Sir,  he  wrote 
Answering  the  charge  that  science  would 

put  out 
The  light  of  beauty,  these  very  handsome 

lines: 

When  Newton  walked  by  Witham  stream 

There  fell  no  chilling  shade 
To  blight  the  drifting  naiad's  dream 

Or  make  her  garland  fade. 

The    mist    of    sun    was    not    less    bright 

That  crowned  Urania's  hair. 
He  robbed  it  of  its  colder  light, 

But  left  the  rainbow  there.' 

They  are  very  neat  and  handsome,  you'll 

agree. 

Solid  in  sense  as  Dryden  at  his  best, 
And  smooth  as  Waller,  but  with  something 

more, — 

[203] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

That  touch  of  grace,  that  airier  elegance 
Which  only  rank  can  give. 

'Tis  very  sad 
That  one  so  nobly  praised  should — well,  no 

matter! — 
I    am    told,    sir,    that    these    troubles    all 

began 
At  Cambridge,  when  his  manuscripts  were 

burned. 

He  had  been  working,  in  his  curious  way, 
All  through  the  night;  and,  in  the  morning 

greyness 

Went  down  to  chapel,  leaving  on  his  desk 
A  lighted  candle.     You  can  imagine  it, — 
A  sadly  sloven  altar  to  his  Muse, 
Littered   with    papers,    cups,    and    greasy 

plates 
Of   untouched   food.     I   am  told   that  he 

would  eat 
His  Monday's  breakfast,  sir,  on  Tuesday 

morning, 

Such  was  his  absent  wayl 
[204] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

When  he  returned, 

He  found  that  Diamond   (his  little  dog 
Named  Diamond,  for  a  black  patch  near 

his  tail) 

Had  overturned  the  candle.     All  his  work 
Was  burned  to  ashes. 

It  struck  him  to  the  quick, 
Though,  when  his   terrier  fawned   about 

his  feet, 
He  showed  no  anger.     He  was  heard  to 

say, 
'O    Diamond,    Diamond,    little    do    you 

know  .  .  .' 
But,  from  that  hour,  ah  well,  we'll  say  no 

more." 

Halley  was  there  that  day,  and  spoke  up 

sharply, 
"Sir,  there  are  hints  and  hints!     Do  you 

mean  more?" 
— "I  do,  sir,"  chirruped  Samuel,  mightily 

pleased 

[205] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

To  find  all  eyes,  for  once,  on  his  fat  face. 
"I  fear  his  intellects  are  disordered,  sir." 
— "Good!  That's  an  answer!  I  can  deal 

with  that. 
But  tell  me  first,"  quoth  Halley,  "why  he 

wrote 

That  letter,  a  week  ago,  to  Mr.  Pepys." 
— "Why,  sir,"  piped  Samuel,  innocent  of 

the  trap, 

"I  had  an  argument  in  this  coffee-house 
Last  week,  with  certain  gentlemen,  on  the 

laws 
Of   chance,   and   what  fair  hopes   a   man 

might  have 
Of  throwing  six  at  dice.     I  happened  to 

say 

That  Mr.  Isaac  Newton  was  my  friend, 
And  promised  I  would  sound  him." 

"Sir,"  said  Halley, 
"You'll  pardon  me,  but  I   forgot  to   tell 

you 
I    heard,    a    minute    since,    outside    these 

doors, 

[206] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

A  very  modish  woman  of  the  town, 
Or  else  a  most  delicrous  lady  of  fashion, 
A  melting  creature  with  a  bold  black  eye, 
A    bosom    like    twin    doves;    and,    sir,    a 

mouth 
Like   a  Turk's  dream  of   Paradise.     She 

cooed, 

'Is  Mr.  Pepys  within?'     I  greatly  fear 
That  they  denkd  you  to  her!" 

Off  ran  Pepys! 
"A  hint's  a  hint,"  laughed   Halley,  "and 

so  to  bed. 

But,  as  for  Isaac  Newton,  let  me  say, 
Whatever  his  embroilments  were,  he  solved 
With  just  one  hour  of  thought,  not  long 

ago 

The  problem  set  by  Leibnitz  as  a  challenge 
To  all  of  Europe.     He  published  his  result 
Anonymously,  but  Leibnitz,  when  he  saw  it, 
Cried  out,  at  once,  old  enemy  as  he  was, 
'That's  Newton,  none  but  Newton !     From 

this  claw 

I  know  the  old  lion,  in  his  midnight  lair.'  " 
[207] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 
VI 

(Sir  Isaac  Newton  writes  to    Mrs.  Vincent  at 
Woolthorpe.) 

Your    letter,    on    my    eightieth    birthday, 
wakes 

Memories,    like   violets,    in    this    London 
gloom. 

You  have  never  failed,  for  more  than  three- 
score years 

To  send  these  annual  greetings  from  the 
haunts 

Where  you  and  I  were  boy  and  girl  to- 
gether. 

A    day    must    come — it    cannot    now    be 
far— 

When  I  shall  have  no  power  to  thank  you 
for  them, 

So  let  me  tell  you  now  that,  all  my  life, 

They  have  come  to  me  with  healing  in 
their  wings 

Like   birds   from   home,   birds    from   the 
happy  woods 

[208] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Above    the   Witham,    where   you    walked 

with  me 
When  you  and  I  were  young. 

Do  you  remember 
Old    Barley — how   he    tried    to    teach    us 

drawing? 

He  found  some  promise,  I  believe,  in  you, 
But  quite  despaired  of  me. 

I  treasure  all 

Those  little  sketches  that  you  sent  to  me 
Each     Christmas,     carrying     each     some 

glimpse  of  home. 
There's  one  I  love  that  shows  the  narrow 

lane 
Behind  the  schoolhouse,  where  I  had  that 

bout 
Of    schoolboy    fisticuffs.     I    have    never 

known 

More  pleasure,  I  believe,  than  when  I  beat 
That  black-haired  bully  and  won,  for  my 

reward, 
Those  April  smiles  from  you. 

I  see  you  still 
[209] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Standing    among    the    fox-gloves    in    the 

hedge; 

And  just  behind  you,  in  the  field,  I  know 
There  was  a  patch  of  aromatic  flowers, — 
Rest-harrow,  was  it?  Yes;  their  tangled 

roots 
Pluck    at    the    harrow;    halt    the    sharp 

harrow  of  thought, 
Even  in  old  age.     I  never  breathe  their 

scent 

But  I  am  back  in  boyhood,  dreaming  there 
Over  some  book,  among  the  diligent  bees, 
Until  you  join  me,  and  we  dream  together. 
They  called  me  lazy,  then.  Oddly  enough 
It  was  that  fight  that  stirred  my  mind  to 

beat 
My   bully    at   his    books,    and    head    the 

school ; 

Blind  rivalry,  at  first.  By  such  fond  tricks 
The  invisible  Power  that  shapes  us — not 

ourselves — 

Punishes,  teaches,  leads  us  gently  on 
Like  children,  all  our  lives,  until  we  grasp 
[210] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

A  sudden  meaning  and  are  born,  through 

death 
Into  full  knowledge  that  our  Guide  was 

Love. 

Another  picture  shows  those  woods  of  ours, 
Around  whose  warm  dark  edges  in  the 

spring 

Primroses,  knots  of  living  sunlight,  woke; 
And,  always,  you,  their  radiant  shepherdess 
From  Elfland,  lead  them  rambling  back 

for  me, 

The  dew  still  clinging  to  their  golden  fleece, 
Through  these  grey  memory-mists. 

Another  shows 

My  old  sun-dial.  You  say  that  it  is  known 
As  "Isaac's  dial"  still.  I  took  great 

pains 

To  set  it  rightly.     If  it  has  not  shifted 
'Twill   mark   the   time   long   after   I    am 

gone; 

Not  like  those  curious  water-clocks  I  made. 
Do  you  remember?  They  worked  well  at 

first; 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

But  the  least  particles  in  the  water  clogged 
The  holes  through  which  it  dripped;  and 

so,  one  day, 
We  two  came  home  so  late  that  we  were 

sent 
Supperless    to    our    beds;    and    suffered 

much 
From  the  world's  harshness,  as  we  thought 

it  then. 
Would    God    that    we    might    taste    that 

harshness  now. 

I  cannot  send  you  what  you've  sent  to  me; 
And    so    I    wish    you'll    never    thank   me 

more 
For   those   poor   gifts    I   have   sent   from 

year  to  year. 
I   send   another,   and   hope   that  you   can 

use  it 
To  buy  yourself  those  comforts  which  you 

need 
This  Christmas-time. 

How  strange  it  is  to  wake 
[212] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And  find  that  half  a  century  has  gone  by, 
With  all  our  endless  youth. 

They  talk  to  me 

Of  my  discoveries,  prate  of  undying  fame 
Too  late  to  help  me.  Anything  I  achieved 
Was  done  through  work  and  patience; 

and  the  men 
Who    sought    quick    roads    to    glory    for 

themselves 

Were  capable  of  neither.     So  I  won 
Their  hatred,  and  it  often  hampered  me, 
Because  it  vexed  my  mind. 

This  world  of  ours 
Would  give  me  all,  now  I  have  ceased  to 

want  it; 

For  I  sit  here,  alone,  a  sad  old  man, 
Sipping  his  orange-water,  nodding  to  sleep, 
Not  caring  any  more  for  aught  they  say, 
Not  caring  any  more  for  praise  or  blame; 
But  dreaming — things  we  dreamed  of,  long 

ago, 
In  childhood. 

You  and  I  had  laughed  away 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

That  boy  and  girl   affair.    We  were  too 

poor 
For  anything  but  laughter. 

I  am  old; 
And  you,  twice  wedded  and  twice  widowed, 

still 
Retain,  through  all  your  nearer  joys  and 

griefs, 
The  old  affection.     Vaguely  our  blind  old 

hands 

Grope  for  each  other  in  this  growing  dark 
And  deepening  loneliness, — to  say  "good- 
bye." 
Would  that  my  words  could  tell  you  all 

my  heart; 
But  even  my  words  grow  old. 

Perhaps  these  lines, 
Written    not    long    ago,    may    tell    you 

more. 
I    have    no    skill    in    verse,    despite    the 

praise 
Your  kindness  gave  me,   once;  but  since 

I  wrote 

["4] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Thinking   of   you,    among    the   woods   of 

home, 
My  heart  was  in  them.     Let  them  turn  to 

yours : 

Give  me,  for  friends,   my   own   true  folk 
Who  kept  the  very  word  they  spoke; 
Whose  quiet  prayers,  from  day  to  day, 
Have  brought  the  heavens  about  my  way, 

Not  those  whose  intellectual  pride 
Would  quench  the  only  lights  that  guide; 
Confuse   the   lines   'twixt  good   and   ill 
Then  throne  their  own  capricious  will; 

Not  those  whose  eyes  in  mockery  scan 
The  simpler  hopes  and  dreams  of  man; 
Not  those  keen  wits,  so  quick  to   hurt, 
So  swift  to  trip  you  in  the  dirt. 

Not  those  who'd  pluck  your  mystery  out, 
Yet  never  saw  your  last  redoubt; 

Whose   cleverness  would   kill   the  song 
Dead  at  your  heart,  then  prove  you  wrong. 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Give  me  those  eyes  I  used  to  know 
Where  thoughts  like  angels  come  and  go; 
— Not  glittering   eyes,  nor  dimmed   by 

books, 

But  eyes  through  'which   the  deep  soul 
looks. 

Give  me  the  quiet  hands  and  face 
That  never  strove  for  fame  and  place; 
The   soul   whose    love,   so    many   a   day 
Has  brought  the  heavens  about  my  way. 

VII 

Was    it    a    dream,    that    low    dim-lighted 

room 
With    that   dark   periwigged   phantom    of 

Dean  Swift 

Writing,  beside  a  fire,  to  one  he  loved, — 
Beautiful  Catherine  Barton,  once  the  light 
Of  Newton's    house,   and    his    half-sister'* 

child? 

[216] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Yes,  Catherine  Barton,  I  am  brave  enough 
To  face  this  pale,  unhappy,  wistful  ghost 
Of  our  departed  friendship. 

It  was  I 

Savage  and  mad,  a  snarling  kennel  of  sins, 
"Your  Holiness,"  as  you  called  me,  with 

that  smile 
Which  even  your  ghost  would  quietly  turn 

on  me — 

Who  raised  it  up.     It  has  no  terrors,  dear, 
And  I  shall  never  lay  it  while  I  live. 
You  write  to  me.     You  think  I  have  the 

power 

To  shield  the  fame  of  Newton  from  a  lie. 
Poor  little  ghost!  You  think  I  hold  the 

keys 
Not  only  of  Parnassus,  then,  but  hell. 

There  is  a  tale  abroad  that  Newton  owed 
His  public  office  to  Lord  Halifax, 
Your    secret    lover.     Coarseness,    as    you 
know, 

[217] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Is  my  peculiar  privilege.     I'll  be  plain, 
And  let  them  wince  who  are  whispering  in 

the  dark. 
They  are  hinting  that  he  gained  his  public 

post 
Through   you,   his   flesh   and   blood;   and 

that  he  knew 
You  were  his  patron's  mistress! 

Yes,  I  know 
The   coffee-house  that  hatched   it — to   be 

scotched, 
Nay,  killed,  before  one  snuff-box  could  say 

"snap," 
Had  not  one  cold  malevolent  face  been 

there 
Listening, — that    crystal-minded    lover    of 

truth, 

That  lucid  enemy  of  all  lies, — Voltaire. 
I  am  told  he  is  doing  much  to  spread  the 

light 
Of  Newton's  great  discoveries,   there,   in 

France. 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

There's  little  fear  that  France,  whose  clear 

keen  eyes 
Have  missed  no  morning  in  the  realm  of 

thought, 
Would  fail  to  see  it;  and  smaller  need  to 

lift 
A  brand  from  hell  to  illume  the  light  from 

heaven. 
You  fear  he'll  print  his  lie.     No  doubt  of 

that. 

I  can  foresee  the  phrase,  as  Halley  saw 
The  advent  of  his  comet, — jolie  niece, 
Assez  aimable,  .  .  .  then   he'll   give  your 

name 

As  Madame  Conduit,  adding  just  that  spice 
Of  infidelity  that  the  dates  admit 
To  none  but  these  truth-lovers.     It  will  be 

best 
Not  to  enlighten  him,  or  he'll  change  his 

tale 
And  make  an  answer  difficult.     Let  him 

print 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

This  truth  as  he  conceives  it,  and  you'll 

need 

No  more  defence. 
All  history  then  shall  damn  his  death-cold 

lie 
And  show  you  for  the  laughing  child  you 

were 
When  Newton  won  his  office. 

For  yourself 
You   say  you   have   no   fear.    Your   only 

thought 
Is    that   they'll    soil    his    fame.     Ah    yes, 

they'll  try, 
But  they'll  not  hurt  it.     For  all  time  to 

come 

It  stands  there,  firm  as  marble  and  as  pure. 
They  can  do  nothing  that  the  sun  and  rain 
Will  not  erase  at  last.  Not  even  Voltaire 
Can  hurt  that  noble  memory.  Think  of 

him 

As  of  a  viper  writhing  at  the  base 
Of  some  great  statue.     Let  the  venomous 

tongue 

[220] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Flicker  against  that  marble  as  it  may 
It  cannot  wound  it. 

I  am  far  more  grieved 
For  you,  who  sit  there  wondering  now,  too 

late, 

If  it  were  some  suspicion,  some  dark  hint 
Newton  had  heard  that  robbed  him  of  his 

sleep, 

And  almost  broke  his  mind  up.     I  recall 
How  the  town  buzzed  that  Newton  had 

gone  mad. 
You   copy  me   that  sad   letter  which   he 

wrote 

To  Locke,  wherein  he  begs  him  to  forgive 
The  hard  words  he  had  spoken,  thinking 

Locke 
Had  tried  to  embroil  him,  as  he  says,  with 

women ; 
A  piteous,  humble  letter. 

Had  he  heard 
Some  hint  of  scandal  that  he  could  not 

breathe 

To  you,  because  he  honoured  you  too  well? 
[221] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

I    cannot    tell.     His    mind    was    greatly 

troubled 
With  other  things.     At  least,  you  need  not 

fear 
That  Newton  thought  it  true.     He  walked 

aloof, 
Treading   a   deeper   stranger   world   than 

ours. 

Have  you  not  told  me  how  he  would  forget 
Even  to  eat  and  drink,  when  he  was  wrapt 
In  those  miraculous  new  discoveries 
And,  under  this  wild  maze  of  shadow  and 

sun 
Beheld — though   not  the   Master   Player's 

hand — 
The  keys   from  which   His  organ  music 

rolls, 
Those  visible  symphonies  of  wild  cloud  and 

light 
Which  clothe  the  invisible  world  for  mortal 

eyes. 
I  have  heard  that  Leibnitz  whispered  to 

the  court 

[222] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

That  Newton  was  an  "atheist."     Leibnitz 

knew 
His  audience.     He  could  stoop  to  it. 

Fools  have  said 
That  knowledge  drives  out  wonder  from 

the  world; 
They'll  say  it  still,  though  all  the  dust's 

ablaze 
With  miracles  at  their  feet;  while  Now- 

ton's  laws 
Foretell  that  knowledge  one  day  shall  be 

song, 
And  those  whom  Truth  has  taken  to  her 

heart 
Find  that  it  beats  in  music. 

Even  this  age 

Has  glimmerings  of  it.     Newton  never  saw 
His   own    full    victory;    but    at    least   he 

knew 

That  all  the  world  was  linked  in  one  again ; 
And,  if  men  found  new  worlds  in  years  to 

come, 

These  too  must  join  the  universal  song. 
[223] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

That's  why  true  poets  love  him ;  and  you'll 

find 

Their  love  will  cancel  all  that  hate  can  do. 
They  are  the  sentinels  of   the   House  of 

Fame ; 
And  that  quick  challenging  couplet  from 

the  pen 

Of  Alexander  Pope  is  answer  enough 
To  all  those  whisperers   round  the  outer 

doors. 
There's  Addison,  too.     The  very  spirit  and 

thought 

Of  Newton  moved  to  music  when  he  wrote 
The    Spacious    Firmament.     Some    keen- 
eyed  age  to  come 
Will  say,  though  Newton  seldom  wrote  a 

verse, 
That  music  was  his  own  and  speaks  his 

faith. 

And,  last,  for  those  who  doubt  his  faith 
in  God 

[224] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And    man's    immortal    destiny,    there    re- 
mains 
The  granite  monument  of  his  own  great 

work, 

That  dark  cathedral  of  man's  intellect, 
The  vast  "Principia,"  pointing  to  the  skies, 
Wherein  our  intellectual  king  proclaimed 
The  task  of  science, — through  this  wilder- 
ness 

Of  Time  and  Space  and  false  appearances, 
To  make  the  path  straight  from  effect  to 

cause, 

Ujitil  we  come  to  that  First  Cause  of  all, 
The    Power,     above,    beyond    the    blind 

machine, 

The  Primal  Power,  the  originating  Power, 
Which  cannot  be  mechanical.     He  affirmed 

it 
With    absolute   ceYtainty.    Whence    arises 

all 

This  order,  this  unbroken  chain  of  law, 
This  human  will,  this  death-defying  love? 
[225] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Whence,  but  from  some  divine  transcend- 
ent Power, 

Not  less,  but  infinitely  more  than  these, 

Because    it   is    their    Fountain    and    their 
Guide. 

Fools  in  their  hearts  have  said,  "Whence 
comes  this  Power, 

Why  throw  the  riddle  back  this  one  stage 
more?" 

And    Newton,    from   a   height   above   all 
worlds 

Answered  and  answers  still: 

"This  universe 

Exists,  and  by  that  one  impossible  fact 

Declares  itself  a  miracle;  postulates 

An  infinite  Power  within  itself,  a  Whole 

Greater  than  any  part,  a  Unity 

Sustaining  all,  binding  all  worlds  in  one. 

This  is  the  mystery,  palpable  here  and  now. 

'Tis  not  the  lack  of  links  within  the  chain 

From  cause  to  cause,  but  that  the  chain 
exists. 

That's  the  unfathomable  mystery, 
[226] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

The    one    unquestioned    miracle    that   we 

know, 

Implying  every  attribute  of  God, 
The  ultimate,  absolute,  omnipresent  Power, 
In  its  own  being,  deep  and  high  as  heaven. 
But  men  still  trace  the  greater  to  the  less, 
Account  for  soul  with  flesh  and  dreams 

with  dust, 
Forgetting   in    their   manifold   world   the 

One, 

In  whom  for  every  splendour  shining  here 
Abides  an  equal  power  behind  the  veil. 
Was  the  eye  contrived  by  blindly  moving 

atoms, 
Or    the    still-listening    ear    fulfilled    with 

music 
By    forces    without    knowledge    of    sweet 

sounds? 

Are  nerves  and  brain  so  sensitively  fash- 
ioned 
That  they  convey  these   pictures   of   the 

world 

Into  the  very  substance  of  our  life, 
[227] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

While   That   from   which   we   came,    the 

Power  that  made  us, 
Is  -drowned   in  blank  unconsciousness  of 

all? 

Does  it  not  from  the  things  we  know  ap- 
pear 

That  there  exists  a  Being,  incorporeal, 
Living,  intelligent,  who  in  infinite  space, 
As  in  His  infinite  sensory,  perceives 
Things  in  themselves,  by  His  immediate 

presence 
Everywhere?    Of  which  things,  we  see  no 

more 
Than  images  only,  flashed  through  nerves 

and  brain 
To  our  small  sensories? 

What  is  all  science  then 
But  pure  religion,  seeking  everywhere 
The    true    commandments,    and    through 

many  forms 
The  eternal  power  that  binds  all  worlds  in 

one? 
It  is  man's  age-long  struggle  to  draw  near 

[228] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

His  Maker,   learn   His  thoughts,   discern 

His  law,— 

A  boundless  task,  in  whose  infinitude, 
As    in    the    unfolding   light    and    law   of 

love. 

Abides  our  hope,  and  our  eternal  joy. 
I  know  not  how  my  work  may  seem  to 

others " 

So   wrote   our   mightiest    mind — "But    to 

myself 

I  seem  a  child  that  wandering  all  day  long 
Upon  the  sea-shore,  gathers  here  a  shell, 
And  there  a  pebble,  coloured  by  the  wave, 
While  the  great  ocean  of  truth,  from  sky 

to  sky 

Stretches    before    him,    boundless,    unex- 
plored." 

He  has  explored  it  now,  and  needs  of  me 
Neither    defence    nor    tribute.     His    own 

work 
Remains  his  monument.     He  rose  at  last 

so  near 

[229] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

The  Power  divine  that  none  can  nearer  go; 
None  in  this  age!     To  carry  on  his  fire 
We  must  await  a  mightier  age  to  come. 


VI 
WILLIAM  HERSCHEL  CONDUCTS 

WAS  it  a  dream? — that  crowded  con- 
cert-room 
In    Bath;    that   sea    of    ruffles    and    laced 

coats; 
And  William  Herschel,  in  his  powdered 

wig, 

Waiting  upon  the  platform,  to  conduct 
His    choir    and    Linley's    orchestra?     He 

stood 
Tapping   his   music-rest,   lost   in    his    own 

thoughts 
And  (did  I  hear  or  dream  them?)  all  were 

mine: 

My  periwig's  askew,  my  ruffle  stained 
With  grease  from  my  new  telescope! 
[231] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Ach,  to-morrow 
How  Caroline  will  be  vexed,  although  she 

grows 

Almost  as  bad  as  I,  who  cannot  leave 
My  work-shop  for  one  evening. 

I  must  give 

One  last  recital  at  St.  Margaret's, 
And  then — farewell  to  music. 

Who  can  lead 
Two  lives  at  once? 

Yet — it  has  taught  me  much, 
Thrown  curious  lights  upon  our  world,  to 

pass 
From  one  life  to  another.     Much  that  I 

took 
For  substance  turns  to  shadow.     I  shall 

see 
No  throngs  like  this  again;  wring  no  more 

praise 

Out  of  their  hearts;  forego  that  instant  joy 
— Let  those  who  have  not  known  it  count 
it  vain — 

[232] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

When    human   souls    at   once    respond   to 

yours. 
Here,    on    the   brink   of    fortune    and   of 

fame, 
As  men  account  these  things,  the  moment 

comes 
When  I  must  choose  between  them  and  the 

stars; 
And  I  have  chosen. 

Handel,  good  old  friend, 
We    part    to-night.     Hereafter,     I     must 

watch 
That  other  wand,  to  which  the  worlds  keep 

time. 

What  has  decided  me?    That  marvellous 

night 

When — ah,  how  difficult  it  will  be  to  guide, 
With  all  these  wonders  whirling  through 

my  brain! — 

After  a  Pump-room  concert  I  came  home 

Hot-foot,  out  of  the  fluttering  sea  of  fans, 

[233] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Coquelicot-ribboned  belles  and  periwigged 

beaux, 
To  my  Newtonian  telescope. 

The  design 
Was  his;  but  more  than  half  the  joy  my 

own, 

Because  it  was  the  work  of  my  own  hand, 
A  new  one,  with  an  eye  six  inches  wide, 
Better   than   even   the   best   that  Newton 

made. 

Then,  as  I  turned  it  on  the  Gemini, 
And  the  deep  stillness  of  those  constant 

lights, 

Castor  and  Pollux,  lucid  pilot-stars, 
Began  to  calm  the  fever  of  my  blood, 
I  saw,  O,  first  of  all  mankind  I  saw 
The  disk  of  my  new  planet  gliding  there 
Beyond  our  tumults,  in  that  realm  of  peace. 

What   will    they    christen    it?    Ach — not 

Herschel,  no! 

Nor  Georgium  Sidus,  as  I  once  proposed; 
[234] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Although  he  scarce  could  lose  it,  as  he  lost 
That  world  in  'seventy-six. 

Indeed,  so  far 

From  trying  to  tax  it,  he  has  granted  me 
How  much? — two  hundred  golden  pounds 

a  year, 

In  the  great  name  of  science, — half  the  cost 
Of  one  state-coach,  with  all  those  worlds 

to  win! 
Well — well — we  must  be  grateful.    This 

mad  king 

Has  done  far  more  than  all  the  worldly- 
wise, 
Who'll  charge  even  this  to  madness. 

I  believe 
One  day  he'll  have  me  pardoned  for  that 

.  .  .  crime, 
When    I   escaped — deserted,   some   would 

say — 
From   those   drill-sergeants   in   my   native 

land; 

Deserted  drill  for  music,  as  I  now 
[235] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Desert  my  music  for  the  orchestral  spheres. 
No.  This  new  planet  is  only  new  to  man. 
His  majesty  has  done  much.  Yet,  as  my 

friend 
Declared  last  night,  "Never  did  monarch 

buy 
Honour    so    cheaply";    and — he    has    not 

bought  it. 
I  think  that  it  should  bear  some  ancient 

name, 
And  wear  it  like  a  crown ;  some  deep,  dark 

name, 
Like  Uranus,  known  to  remoter  gods. 

How  strange  it  seems — this  buzzing  con- 
cert-room ! 

There's  Doctor  Burney  bowing  and,  behind 
him, 

His  fox-eyed  daughter  Fanny. 

Is  it  a  dream, 

These  crowding  midgets,  dense  as  cluster- 
ing bees 

In  some  great  bee-skep? 

[236] 


Now,  as  I  lift  my  wand, 

A  silence  grips  them,  and  the  strings  be- 
gin, 

Throbbing.     The    faint    lights    flicker    in 
gusts  of  sound. 

Before    me,    glimmering    like    a    crescent 
moon, 

The  dim  half  circle  of  the  choir  awaits 

Its  own  appointed  time. 

Beside  me  now, 

Watching  my  wand,  plump  and  immacu- 
late 

From  buckled  shoes  to  that  white  bunch 
of  lace 

Under  his  chin,  the  midget  tenor  rises, 

Music  in  hand,  a  linnet  and  a  king. 

The  bullfinch  bass,  that  other  emperor, 

Leans   back   indifferently,    and   clears   his 
throat 

As  if  to  say,  "This  prelude  leads  to  Me!" 

While,   on   their   own   proud   thrones,   on 
either  hand, 

The  sumptuously  bosomed  midget  queens, 
[237] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Contralto  and  soprano,  jealously  eye 
Each  other's  plumage. 

Round  me  the  music  throbs 
With  an  immortal  passion.  I  grow  aware 
Of  an  appalling  mystery.  .  .  .  We,  this 

throng 
Of  midgets,  playing,   listening,   tense  and 

still, 

Are  sailing  on  a  midget  ball  of  dust 
We    call    our    planet;    will    have    sailed 

through  space 
Ten   thousand   leagues   before   this   music 

ends. 
What  does  it  mean?    Oh,  God,  what  can  it 

mean? — 
This  weird  hushed  ant-hill  with  a  thousand 

eyes; 
These    midget   periwigs;    all    those    little 

blurs, 

Tier  over  tier,  of  faces,  masks  of  flesh, 
Corruptible,    hiding   each    its    hopes    and 

dreams, 

Its  tragi-comic  dreams. 
[238] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And  all  this  throng 
Will  be  forgotten,  mixed  with  dust,  crushed 

out, 

Before  this  book  of  music  is  outworn 
Or  that  tall  organ  crumbles.  Violins 
Outlast  their  players.  Other  hands  may 

touch 
That    harpsichord;    but    ere    this    planet 

makes 

Another  threescore  journeys  round  its  sun, 
These  breathing  listeners  will  have  van- 
ished.    Whither? 
I  watch  my  moving  hands,  and  they  grow 

strange ! 

What  is  it  moves  this  body?    What  am  I? 
How  came  I  here,  a  ghost,  to  hear  that 

voice 

Of  infinite  compassion,  far  away, 
Above  the  throbbing  strings,  hark!     Com- 
fort ye  .  .  . 

If  music  lead  us  to  a  cry  like  this, 
I  think  I  shall  not  lose  it  in  the  skies. 
[239] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

I  do  but  follow  its  own  secret  law 
As  long  ago  I  sought  to  understand 
Its  golden  mathematics;  taught  myself 
The  way  to  lay  one  stone  upon  another, 
Before   I   dared   to   dream   that  I   might 

build 

My  Holy  City  of  Song.     I  gave  myself 
To  all  its  branches.     How  they  stared  at 

me, 

Those  men  of  "sensibility,"  when  I  said 
That  algebra,  conic  sections,  fluxions,  all 
Pertained  to  music.  Let  them  stare  again. 
Old  Kepler  knew,  by  instinct,  what  I  now 
Desire  to  learn.  I  have  resolved  to  leave 
No  tract  of  heaven  unvisited. 

To-night, 

— The  music  carries  me  back  to  it  again! — 
I  see  beyond  this  island  universe, 
Beyond  our  sun,  and  all  those  other  suns 
That  throng  the  Milky  Way,  far,  far  be- 
yond, 

A  thousand  little  wisps,  faint  nebulae, 
Luminous  fans  and  milky  streaks  of  fire; 
[240] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Some  like  soft  brushes  of  electric  mist 
Streaming  from  one  bright  point;  others 

that  spread 
And  branch,  like  growing  systems;  others 

discrete, 
Keen,  ripe,  with  stars  in  clusters;  others 

drawn  back 

By  central  forces  into  one  dense  death, 
Thence  to  be  kindled  into  fire,  reborn, 
And  scattered  abroad  once  more  in  a  del- 
icate spray 
Faint  as  the  mist  by  one  bright  dewdrop 

breathed 

At  dawn,  and  yet  a  universe  like  our  own ; 
Each  wisp  a  universe,  a  vast  galaxy 
Wide  as  our  night  of  stars. 

The  Milky  Way 
In   which   our   sun   is   drowned,   to   these 

would  seem 

Less  than  to  us  their  faintest  drift  of  haze; 
Yet  we,  who  are  borne  on  one  dark  grain 

of  dust 
Around  one  indistinguishable  spark 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Of  star-mist,   lost   in  one   lost  feather  of 

light, 
Can  by  the  strength  of  our  own  thought, 

ascend 
Through    universe    after    universe;    trace 

their  growth 
Through  boundless  time,  their  glory,  their 

decay; 
And,  on  the  invisible  road  of  law,  more 

firm 
Than    granite,    range    through    all    their 

length  and  breadth, 
Their  height  and  depth,  past,  present  and 

to  come. 

So,    those   who    follow   the   great   Work- 
master's  law 
From  small  things  up  to  great,  may  one 

day  learn 
The  structure  of  the  heavens,  discern  the 

whole 
Within  the  part,  as  men  through  Love  see 

God. 

[242] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Oh,  holy  night,  deep  night  of  stars,  whose 

peace 

Descends  upon  the  troubled  mind  like  dew, 
Healing  it  with  the  sense  of  that  pure  reign 
Of  constant  law,  enduring  through  all 

change ; 

Shall  I  not,  one  day,  after  faithful  years, 
Find  that  thy  heavens  are  built  on  music, 

too, 
And  hear,  once  more,  above  thy  throbbing 

worlds 

This  voice  of  all  compassion,  Comfort  ye, — 
Yes — comfort  ye,  my  people,  saith  your 

God? 


VII 

SIR  JOHN  HERSCHEL 
REMEMBERS 

TRUE  type  of  all,  from  his  own  fa- 
ther's hand 
He  caught  the  fire ;  and,  though  he  carried 

it  far 

Into  new  regions ;  and,  from  southern  fields 
Of  yellow  lupin,  added  host  on  host 
To  those  bright  armies  which  his  father 

knew, 

Surely  the  crowning  hour  of  all  his  life 
Was  when,  his  task  accomplished,  he  re- 
turned 

A  lonely  pilgrim  to  the  twilit  shrine 
Of  first  beginnings  and  his  father's  youth. 
There,  in  the  Octagon  Chapel,  with  bared 
head 

[244] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Grey,  honoured  for  his  father  and  himself, 
He    touched    the    glimmering    keyboard, 

touched  the  books 
Those  dear  lost  hands  had  touched  so  long 

ago. 

"Strange  that  these  poor  inanimate  things 

outlast 
The  life  that  used  them. 

Yes.     I  should  like  to  try 
This  good  old  friend  of  his.     You'll  leave 

me  here 
An  hour  or  so?" 

His  hands  explored  the  stops; 
And,  while  the  music  breathed  what  else 

were  mute, 
His    mind    through    many    thoughts    and 

memories  ranged. 

Picture  on  picture  passed  before  him  there 
In  living  colours,  painted  on  the  gloom : 
Not  what  the  world  acclaimed,  the  great 

work  crowned, 

But  all  that  went  before,  the  years  of  toil ; 
[245] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

The  years  of  infinite  patience,  hope,  despair. 
He  saw  the  little  house  where  all  began, 
His  father's  first  resolve  to  explore  the  sky, 
His    first    defeat,    when    telescopes    were 

found 

Too  costly  for  a  music-master's  purse; 
And  then  that  dogged  and  all-conquering 

will 

Declaring,  "Be  it  so.     I'll  make  my  own, 
A  better  than  even  the  best  that  Newton 

made." 

He  saw  his  first  rude  telescope — a  tube 
Of  pasteboard,  with  a  lens  at  either  end; 
And   then, — that  arduous   growth   to   size 

and  power 

With  each  new  instrument,  as  his  knowl- 
edge grew; 
And,    to   reward    each   growth,    a    deeper 

heaven. 

He  saw  the  good  Aunt  Caroline's  dismay 
When  her  trim  drawing-room,  as  by  wiz- 
ardry, turned 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Into    a    workshop,    where    her    brother's 

hands 
Cut,  ground  and  burnished,  hour  on  aching 

hour, 
Month   after  month,  new  mirrors  of  the 

sky. 

Yet,  while  from  dawn  to  dark  her  brother 

moved 

Around  some  new-cut  mirror,  burnishing  it. 
Knowing    that    if    he    once    removed    his 

hands 
The  surface  would  be  dimmed  and  must 

forego 
Its  heaven  for  ever,  her  quiet  hands  would 

raise 
Food  to  his  lips;  or,  with   that  musical 

voice 
Which    once — for    she,    too,    offered    her 

sacrifice — 
Had  promised  her  fame,  she  whiled  away 

the  hours 

[247] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Reading  how,  long  ago,  Aladdin  raised 
The  djinns,   by  burnishing  that  old   bat- 
tered lamp; 

Or,  from  Cervantes,  how  one  crazy  soul 
Tilting  at  windmills,  challenged  a  purblind 
world. 

He  saw  her  seized  at  last  by  that  same 

fire, 

Burning  to  help,  a  sleepless  Vestal,  dowered 
With    lightning-quickness,    rushing    from 

desk  to  clock, 

Or  measuring  distances  at  dead  of  night 
Between    the    lamp-micrometer    and    his 

eyes. 

He  saw  her  in  mid-winter,  hurrying  out, 
A  slim  shawled  figure  through  the  drifted 

snow, 
To  help  him;  saw  her  fall  with  a  stifled 

cry, 

Gashing  herself  upon  that  buried  hook, 
[248] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

And  struggling  up,  out  of  the  blood-stained 

drift, 
To  greet  him  with  a  smile. 

"For  any  soldier, 
This  wound,"  the  surgeon  muttered,  "would 

have  meant 
Six  weeks  in  hospital." 

Not  six  days  for  her! 
"I  am  glad  these  nights  were  cloudy,  and 

we  lost 
So  little,"  was  all  she  said. 

Sir  John  pulled  out 

Another  stop.     A  little  ironical  march 
Of  flutes  began  to  goose-step  through  the 

gloom. 
He  saw  that  first  "success"!    Ay,  call  it 

so! 
The  royal  command, — the  court  desires  to 

see 

The  planet  Saturn  and  his  marvellous  rings 
On   Friday  night.     The  skies,   on   Friday 

night, 

[249] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Were  black  with  clouds.     "Canute  me  no 

Canutes," 

Muttered    their   new   magician,    and    un- 
packed 
His  telescope.     "You  shall  see  what  you 

can  see." 
He   levelled   it  through   a  window;   and 

they  saw 
"Wonderful!        Marvellous!        Glorious! 

Eh,  what,  what!" 

A  planet  of  paper,  with  a  paper  ring, 
Lit  by  a  lamp,  in  a  hollow  of  Windsor 

Park, 
Among  the  ferns,  where  Herne  the  Hunter 

walks, 
And   Falstaff   found   that  fairies   live  on 

cheese. 
Thus  all  were  satisfied;  while,  above  the 

clouds — 

The  thunder  of  the  pedals  reaffirmed — 
The  Titan  planet,  every  minute,  rolled 
Three  hundred  leagues  upon  his  awful 

way. 

[250] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Then,  through  that  night,  the  vox  humana 
spoke 

With  deeper  longing  than  Lucretius  knew 

When,  in  his  great  third  book,  the  sombre 
chant 

Kindled    and    soared    on    those    exultant 
wings, 

Praising  the  master's  hand  from  which  he, 
too, 

— Father,  discoverer,  hero — caught  the  fire. 

It  spoke  of  those  vast  labours,  incomplete, 

But,  through  their  incompletion,  infinite 

In    beauty,    and    in    hope;    the    task    be- 
queathed 

From  dying  hand  to  hand. 

Close  to  his  grave 

Like  a  memento  mori  stood  the  hulk 

Of    that   great   weapon    rusted    and    out- 
worn, 

Which  once  broke  down  the  barriers  of  the 
sky. 

"Perrupit  claustra" ;  yes,  and  bridged  their 
gulfs; 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

For,    far    beyond    our    solar    scheme,    it 

showed 
The  law  that  bound  our  planets  binding 

still 
Those  coupled  suns  which  year  by  year  he 

watched 
Around  each  other  circling. 

Had  our  own 
Some    distant    comrade,    lost    among    the 

stars? 
Should  we  not,  one  day,  just  as   Kepler 

drew 

His  planetary  music  and  its  laws 
From    all    those    faithful    records   Tycho 

made, 

Discern  at  last  what  vaster  music  rules 
The  vaster  drift  of  stars  from  deep  to  deep  ; 
Around  what  awful  Poles,  those  wisps  of 

light 

Those  fifteen  hundred  universes  move? 
One  signal,  even  now,  across  the  dark, 
Declared  their  worlds  confederate  with  our 


[252] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

For,  carrying  many  secrets,  which  we  now 

Slowly  decipher,  one  swift  messenger  comes 

Across  the  abyss  .  .  . 

The  light  that,  flashing  through  the  im- 
measurable, 

From  universe  to  universe  proclaims 

The  single  reign  of  law  that  binds  them  all. 

We  shall  break  up  those  rays  and,  in  their 
lines 

And  colours,  read  the  history  of  their 
stars. 

Year  after  year,  the  slow  sure  records  grow. 

Awaiting  their  interpreter.     They  shall  see 

it, 
Our  sons,  in  that  far  day,  the  swift,  the 

strong, 
The  triumphing  young-eyed  runners  with 

the  torch. 

No  deep-set  boundary-mark  in   Space  or 

Time 
Shall  halt  or  daunt  them.     Who  that  once 

has  seen 

[253] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

How  truth  leads  on  to  truth,  shall  ever 

dare 
To  set  a  bound  to  knowledge? 

"Would  that  he  knew" 
— So  thought  the  visitant  at  that  shadowy 

shrine — 

"Even  as  the  maker  of  a  song  can  hear 
With  the  soul's  ear,  far  off,  the  unstricken 

chords 

To  which,  by  its  own  inner  law,  it  climbs, 
Would  that  my  father  knew  how  younger 

hands 

Completed  his  own  planetary  tune; 
How  from  the  planet  that  his  own  eyes 

found 
The  mind  of  man  would  plunge  into  the 

dark, 
And,  blindfold,  find  without  the  help  of 

eyes 
A  mightier  planet,  in  the  depths  beyond." 

Then,  while  the  reeds,  with  quiet  melodious 
pace 

[254] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Followed  the  dream,  as  in  a  picture  passed, 
Adams,  the  boy  at  Cambridge,  making  his 

vow 
By   that  still   lamp,   alone   in   that   deep 

night, 
Beneath  the  crumbling  battlements  of  St. 

John's, 
To   know  why  Uranus,   uttermost  planet 

known, 

Moved  in  a  rhythm  delicately  astray 
From  all  the  golden  harmonies  ordained 
By   those   known   measures   of    its    sister- 
worlds. 

Was  there  an  unknown  planet,  far  beyond, 
Sailing  through  unimaginable  deeps 
And  drawing  it  from  its  path? 

Then  challenging  chords 
Echoed  the  prophecy  that  Sir  John  had 

made, 

Guided  by  his  own  faith  in  Newton's  law: 
We  have  not  found  it,  but  we  feel  it  trem- 
bling 

Along  the  lines  of  our  analysis  now 
[255] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

As    once    Columbus,   from    the   shores    of 

Spain, 
Felt  the  new  continent. 

Then,  in  swift  fugues,  began 
A  race  between  two  nations  for  the  prize 
Of  that  new  world. 

Le  Verrier  in  France, 
Adams    in    England,    each    of    them    un- 
aware 

Of  his  own  rival,  at  the  selfsame  hour 
Resolved  to  find  it. 

Not  by  the  telescope  now! 
Skies  might  be   swept  for   aeons   ere  one 

spark 
Among   those   myriads  were   both   found 

and  seen 
To  move,  at  that  vast  distance  round  our 

sun. 
They  worked  by  faith  in  law  alone.     They 

knew 
The  wanderings  of  great  Uranus,  and  they 

knew 
The  law  of  Newton. 

[256] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

By  the  midnight  lamp, 
Pencil    in    hand,    shut    in    a    four-walled 

room, 
Each    by    pure    thought    must    work    his 

problem  out, — 

Given  that  law,  to  find  the  mass  and  place 
Of  that  which  drew  their  planet  from  his 

course. 

There  were  no  throngs  to  applaud  them. 

Each  alone, 

Without  the  heat  of  conflict  laboured  on, 
Consuming  brain  and  nerve;  for  throngs 

applaud 

Only  the  flash  and  tinsel  of  their  day, 
Never  the  quiet  runners  with  the  torch. 
Night  after  night  they  laboured.     Line  on 

line 

Of  intricate  figures,  moving  all  in  law, 
They    marshalled.      Their    long    columns 

formed  and  marched 
From  battle  to  battle,  and  no  sound  was 

heard 

[257] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Of    victory    or    defeat.     They    marched 

through  snows 
Bleak  as  the  drifts  that  broke  Napoleon's 

pride 
And  through  a  vaster  desert.    They  drilled 

their  hosts 

With  that  divine  precision  of  the  mind 
To  which  one  second's  error  in  a  year 
Were  anarchy,  that  precision  which  is  felt 
Throbbing  through  music. 

Month  on  month  they  toiled, 
With  worlds  for  ciphers.     One  rich  autumn 

night 

Brooding  over  his  figures  there  alone 
In  Cambridge,  Adams  found  them  moving 

all 

To  one  solution.     To  the  unseeing  eye 
His  long  neat  pages  had  no  more  to  tell 
Than  any  merchant's  ledger,  yet  they  shone 
With  epic  splendour,   and  like   trumpets 

pealed ; 
Three  hundred  million  leagues  beyond  the 

path 

[258] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Of  our  remotest  planet,  drowned  in  night 
Another  and  a  mightier  planet  rolls; 
In  volume,  fifty  times  more  vast  than  earth. 
And  of  so  huge  an  orbit  that  its  year 
Wellnigh  outlasts  our  nations.     Though  it 

moves 
A   thousand  leagues  an  hour,  it  has  not 

ranged 
Thrice  through  its  seasons  since  Columbus 

sailed, 
Or  more  than  once  since  Galileo  died. 

He  took  his  proofs  to  Greenwich.    "Sweep 

the  skies 

Within  this  limited  region  now,"  he  said. 
"You'll    find    your    moving    planet.     I'm 

not  more 
Than  one  degree  in  error." 

He  left  his  proofs; 
But    Airy,    king    of    Greenwich,    looked 

askance 

At  unofficial  genius  in  the  young, 
And  pigeon-holed  that  music  of  the  spheres. 
[259] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Nine  months  he  waited  till  Le  Verrier,  too, 

Pointed  to  that  same  region  of  the  sky. 

Then  Airy,  opening  his  big  sleepy  lids, 

Bade  Challis  use  his  telescope, — too  late, 

To  make  that  honour  all  his  country's  own ; 

For  all  Le  Verrier's  proofs  were  now  with 
Galle 

Who,  being  German,  had  his  star-charts 
ready 

And,   in   that  region,   found   one  needle- 
point 

Had  moved.     A  monster  planet! 

Honour  to  France! 

Honour  to  England,  too,  the  cry  began, 

Who  found  it  also,  though  she  drowsed  at 
Greenwich. 

So — as  the  French  said,  with  some  sting 
in  it — 

"We  gave  the  name  of  Neptune  to  our 
prize 

Because  our  neighbour  England  rules  the 


sea." 


[260] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

"Honour  to   all,"   say  we;   for,   in   these 

wars, 

Whoever  wins  a  battle  wins  for  all. 
But,  most  of  all,  honour  to  him  who  found 
The  law  that  was  a  lantern  to  their  feet, — 
Newton,  the  first  whose  thought  could  soar 

beyond 

The  bounds  of  human  vision  and  declare, 
"Thus  saith  the  law  of  Nature  and  of  God 
Concerning  things  invisible." 

This  new  world 

What  was  it  but  one  harmony  the  more 
In   that  great  music   which   himself   had 

heard, — 

The  chant  of  those  reintegrated  spheres 
Moving  around  their  sun,  while  all  things 

moved 

Around  one  deeper  Light,  revealed  by  law, 
Beyond  all  vision,  past  all  understandingj 
Yet  darkly  shadowed  forth  for  dreaming 

men 

On  earth  in  music  .  .  . 
[261] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Music,  all  comes  back 
To  music  in  the  end. 

Then,  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  Octagon  Chapel,  the  dreamer  lifted 

up 

His  face,  as  if  to  all  those  great  forebears. 
The  quivering  organ  rolled  upon  the  dusk 
His  dream  of  that  new  symphony, — the  sun 
Chanting  to  all  his  planets  on  their  way 
While,  stop  to  stop  replying,  height  o'er 

height, 
His  planets  answered,  voices  of  a  dream : 

THE  SUN 

Light,  on  the  far  faint  planets  that  attend 

me! 
Light!     But  for  me — the  fury  and  the 

fire. 
My  white-hot  maelstroms,  the  red  stormi 

that  rend  me 

Can  yield   them  still  the  harvest  they 
desire. 

[262] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

I  kiss  with  light  their  sunward-lifted  faces. 
With  dew-drenched  flowers  I  crown  their 

dusky  brows. 
They  praise  me,  lightly,  from  their  pleasant 

places. 

Their  birds  belaud   me,   lightly,   from 
their  boughs. 

And  men,  on  lute  and  lyre,  have  breathed 

their  pleasure. 
They    have    watched    Apollo's    golden 

chariot  roll ; 
Hymned  his  bright  wheels,  but  never  mine 

that  measure 

A  million  leagues  of  flame  from  Pole  to 
Pole. 

Like  harbour-lights  the  stars  grow  wide 

before  me, 
I  draw  my  worlds  ten  thousand  leagues 

a  day. 
Their  far  blue  seas  like  April  eyes  adore 

me. 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

They  follow,  dreaming,  on  my  soundless 

way. 

How  should  they  know,  who  wheel  around 

my  burning, 
What  torments  bore  them,  or  what  power 

am  I, 
I,  that  with  all  those  worlds  around  me 

turning, 

Sail,  every  hour,  from  sky  to  unplumbed 
sky? 

My    planets,    these    live    embers    of    my 

passion, 
These    children    of    my    hurricanes    of 

flame, 
Flung   thro'   the   night,    for  midnight  to 

refashion, 

Praise,  and  forget,  the  splendour  whence 
they  came. 


[264] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 


THE  EARTH 

Was  it  a  dream  that,  in  those  bright  domin- 
ions, 
Are  other  worlds  that  sing,  with  lives  like 

mine, 
Lives  that  with  beating  hearts  and  broken 

pinions 
Aspire  and  fall,  half -mortal,  half -divine? 

A   grain   of  dust  among   those   glittering 

legions — 

Am  I,  I  only,  touched  with  joy  and  tears? 
O,  silver  sisters,  from  yo\ur  azure  regions, 
Breathe,  once  again,  your  music  of  the 
spheres: — 

VENUS 

A  nearer  sun,  a  rose  of  light  arises, 

To  clothe  my  glens  with  richer  clouds  of 
flowers, 

[265] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

To  paint  my  clouds  with  ever  new  sur- 
prises 

And  wreathe  with  mist  my  rosier  domes 
and  towers; 

Where  now,  to  praise  their  gods,  a  throng 

assembles 
Whose  hopes  and  dreams  no  sphere  but 

mine  has  known. 
On  other  worlds  the  same  warm  sunlight 

trembles ; 

But  life,  love,  worship,  these  are  mine 
alone. 

MARS 

And  now,  as  dewdrops  in  the  dawn-light 

glisten, 
Remote  and  cold — see — Earth  and  Venus 

roll. 
We  signalled  them — in  music!     Did  they 

listen? 

Could  they  not  hear  those  whispers  of 
the  soul? 

[266] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

May  not  their  flesh  have  sealed  that  fount 

of  glory, 
That  pure  ninth  sense  which  told  us  of 

mankind? 
Can  some  deep  sleep  bereave  them  of  our 

story 

As  darkness  hides  all  colours  from  the 
blind? 


JUPITER 

I  that  am  sailing  deeper  skies  and  dimmer, 
Twelve  million  leagues  beyond  the  path 

of  Mars, 
Salute  the  sun,  that  cloudy  pearl,  whose 

glimmer 

Renews  my  spring  and  steers  me  through 
the  stars. 

Think  not  that  I  by  distances  am  darkened. 
My  months  are  years;  yet  light  is  in 

mine  eyes. 

Mine  eyes  are  not  as  yours.     Mine  ears 
have  hearkened 
[267] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

To    sounds    from    earth.     Five    moons 
enchant  my  skies. 

SATURN 

And  deeper  yet,  like  molten  opal  shining 
My  belt  of  rainbow  glory  softly  streams. 
And  seven  white  moons  around  me  inter- 
twining 

Hide    my    vast    beauty    in    a    mist    of 
dreams. 

Huge  is   my  orbit;   and   your   flickering 

planet 
A  mote  that  flecks  your  sun,  that  faint 

white  star; 

Yet,  in  my  magic  pools,  I  still  can  scan  it; 
For  I  have  ways  to  look  on  worlds  afar. 

URANUS 

And  deeper  yet — twelve  million  leagues  of 
twilight 

[268] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Divide  mine  empire  even  from  Saturn's 

ken. 
Is  there  a  world  whose  light  is  not  as  my 

light, 
A    midget    world    of    light-imprisoned 

men? 

Shut    from    this    inner   vision    that   hath 

found  me, 
They  hunt  bright  shadows,  painted  to 

betray ; 
And  know  not  that,  because  their  night 

hath  drowned  me, 

My  giants  walk  with  gods  in  boundless 
day. 

NEPTUNE 

Plunge  through  immensity  anew  and  find 

me. 

Though    scarce    I    see   your   sun, — that 
dying  spark — 

[269] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Across  a  myriad  leagues  it  still  can  bind 

me 

To  my  sure  path,  and  steer  me  through 
the  dark. 

I  sail  through  vastness,   and  its  rhythms 

hold  me, 
Though  threescore  earths  could  in  my 

volume  sleep! 
Whose  are  the  might  and  music  that  enfold 

me? 

Whose  is  the  law  that  guides  me  thro' 
the  Deep? 

THE  SUN 

I  hear  their  song.     They  wheel  around  my 

burning! 

I  know  their  orbits;  but  what  path  have  I? 
I  that  with  all  those  worlds  around  me 

turning 

Sail,  every  hour,  ten  thousand  leagues  of 
sky? 

[270] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

My  planets,  these  live  embers  of  my  passion, 
And  I,  too,  filled  with  ntusic  and  with 

flame, 
Flung   thro'   the   night,   for   midnight   to 

refashion, 

Praise  and  forget  the  Splendour  whence 
we  came. 


[271] 


EPILOGUE 

ONCE    more    upon    the    mountain's 
lonely  height 
I  woke,  and  round  me  heard  the  sea-like 

sound 
Of  pine-woods,  as  the  solemn  night-wind 

washed 
Through  the  long  canyons  and  precipitous 

gorges 
Where  coyotes  moaned  and  eagles  made 

their  nest. 
Once   more,    far,    far   below,    I    saw    the 

lights 

Of  distant  cities,  at  the  mountain's  feet, 
Clustered  like  constellations  .  .  . 
Over  me,  like  the  dome  of  some  strange 

shrine, 

Housing  our  great  new  weapon  of  the  sky, 
And  moving  on  its  axis  like  a  moon 
[272] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Glimmered  the  new  Uraniborg. 

Shadows  passed 
Like  monks,  between  it  and  the  low  grey 

walls 
That  lodged  them,  like  a  fortress  in  the 

rocks, 
Their  monastery  of  thought. 

A  shadow  neared  me. 
I    heard,    once    more,    an    eager    living 

voice : 

"Year  after  year,   the   slow  sure   records 
grow. 

I  wish  that  old  Copernicus  could  see 

How,    through   his   truth,    that  once   dis- 
pelled a  dream, 

Broke    the    false    axle-trees    of    heaven, 
destroyed 

All  central  certainty  in  the  universe, 

And  seemed  to  dwarf  mankind,  the  spirit 
of  man 

Laid  hold  on  law,  that  Jacob's-ladder  of 
light, 

[273] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

And    mounting,    slowly,    surely,    step    by 

step, 

Entered  into  its  kingdom  and  its  power. 
For  just  as  Tycho's  tables  of  the  stars 
Within  the  bound  of  our  own  galaxy 
Led  Kepler  to  the  music  of  his  laws, 
So,   father  and  son,   the   Herschels,   with 

their  charts 

Of  all  those  fire-mists,  those  faint  nebulae, 
Those  hosts  of  drifting  universes,  led 
Our  new  discoverers  to  yet  mightier  laws 
Enthroned  above  all  worlds. 

We  have  not  found  them, 
And  yet — only  the  intellectual  fool 
Dreams  in  his  heart  that  even  his  brain 

can  tick 

In  isolated  measure,  a  centre  of  law, 
Amidst  the  whirl  of  universal  chaos. 
For  law  descends  from  law.  Though  all 

the  spheres 
Through  all  the  abysmal  depths  of  Space 

were  blown 

Like  dust  before  a  colder  darker  wind 
[274] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

Than  even  Lucretius  dreamed,  yet  if  one 

thought, 

One  gleam  of  law  within  the  mind  of  man, 
Lighten  our  darkness,  there's  a  law  beyond; 
And  even  that  tempest  of  destruction 

moves 
To   a   lighter  music,   shatters   its   myriad 

worlds 
Only  to  gather  them  up,  as  a  shattered 

wave 

Is  gathered  again  into  a  rhythmic  sea, 
Whose  ebb  and  flow  are  but  the  pulse  of 

Life, 
In  its  creative  passion. 

The  records  grow 

Unceasingly,  and  each  new  grain  of  truth 
Is  packed,  like  radium,  with  whole  worlds 

of  light. 

The  eclipses  timed  in  Babylon  help  us  now 
To  clock  that  gradual  quickening  of  the 

moon, 
Ten  seconds  in  a  century. 

Who  that  wrote 
[275] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

On  those  clay  tablets  could  foresee  his  gift 
To  future  ages;  dreamed  that  the  groping 

mind, 
Dowered  with  so  brief  a  life,  could  ever 

range 
With   that   divine   precision    through    the 

abyss? 

Who,   when    that   good    Dutch   spectacle- 
maker  set 

Two  lenses  in  a  tube,  to  read  the  time 
Upon  the  distant  clock-tower  of  his  church, 
Could  dream   of   this,   our  hundred-inch, 

that  shows 

The  snow  upon  the  polar  caps  of  Mars 
Whitening  and   darkening  as  the  seasons 

change? 

Or  who  could  dream  when  Galileo  watched 
His   moons   of   Jupiter,    that   from   their 

eclipses 
And  from  that  change  in  their  appointed 

times, 

Now  late,  now  early,  as  the  watching  earth 
Farther  or  nearer  on  its  orbit  rolled, 
[276] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

The  immeasurable  speed  of  light  at  last 
Should  be  reduced  to  measure? 

Could  Newton  dream 
When,   through  his  prism,  he  broke  the 

pure  white  shaft 
Into  that  rainbow  band,  how  men  should 

gather 

And  disentangle  ray  by  delicate  ray 
The  colours  of  the  stars, — not  only  those 
That  burn  in  heaven,  but  those  that  long 

since  perished, 
Those   vanished   suns   that  eyes   can   still 

behold, 
The   strange   lost   stars   whose   light   still 

reaches  earth 
Although   they   died    ten   thousand   years 

ago. 
Here,    night   by   night,    the    innumerable 

heavens 

Speak  to  an  eye  more  sensitive  than  man's, 
Write  on  the  camera's  delicate  retina 
A  thousand  messages,  lines  of  dark  and 

bright 

[277] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

That  speak  of  elements  unknown  on  earth. 
How  shall  men  doubt,  who  thus  can  read 

the  Book 
Of  Judgment,  and  transcend  both  Space 

and  Time, 

Analyse  worlds  that  long  since  passed  away, 
And  scan  the  future,  how  shall  they  doubt 

His  power 
From  whom  their  power  and  all  creation 

came?" 

I  think  that,  when  the  second   Herschel 

tried 
Those   great   hexameters   in   our    English 

tongue, 

A  nobler  shield  than  ever  Achilles  knew 
Shone    through   the   song   and   made    his 

echoes  live: 

"There  he  depicted  the  earth,  and  the  can- 
opied sky,  and  the  sea-waves, 

There  the  unwearied  sun,  and  the  full-orbed 
moon  in  their  courses, 
[278] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

All  the  configured  stars  that  gem  the  circuit 

of  heaven, 
Pleiads  and  Hyads  were  there  and  the  giant 

force  of  Orion, 
There  the  revolving  Bear,  which  the  Wain 

they  call,  was  ensculptured, 
Circling  on   high,  and  in  all  his  courses 

regarding  Orion, 
Sole  of  the  starry  train  that  descends  not  to 

bathe  in  the  ocean." 

A  nobler  shield  for  us,  a  deeper  sky; 
But  even  to  us  who  know  how  far  away 
Those    constellations    burn,    the    wonder 

bides 
That  each  vast  sun  can  speed  through  the 

abyss 

Age  after  age  more  swiftly  than  an  eagle, 
Each  on  its  different  road,  alone  like  ours 
With  its  own  satellites;  yet,  since  Homer 

sang, 
Their  aspect  has  not  altered  1    All  their 

flight 

[279] 


THE  TORCH-BEARERS 

Has  not  yet  changed  the  old  pattern  of  the 

Wain. 

The  sword-belt  of  Orion  is  not  sundered. 
Nor  has  one  fugitive  splendour  broken  yet 
From  Cassiopeia's  throne. 

A  thousand  years 

Are  but  as  yesterday,  even  unto  these. 
How  shall  men  doubt  His  empery  over 

time 

Whose  dwelling  is  a  deep  so  absolute 
That  we  can  only  find  Him  in  our  souls. 
For  there,  despite  Copernicus,  each  may 

find 
The  centre  of  all  things.     There  He  lives 

and  reigns. 

There  infinite  distance  into  nearness  grows, 
And  infinite  majesty  stoops  to  dust  again; 
All  things  in  little,  infinite  love  in  man  .  .  . 
Oh,  beating  wings,  descend  to  earth  once 

more, 

And  hear,  reborn,  the  desert  singer's  cry: 
When  I  consider  the  heavens,  the  work  of 

Thy  fingers, 

[280] 


WATCHERS  OF  THE  SKY 

The  sun  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  which 

Thou  hast  ordained, 
Though  man  be  as  dust,  I  know  Thou  art 

mindful  of  him; 
And,    through    Thy    law,    Thy    light   still 

visit eth  him. 


THE  END 


[28l] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


.t'G)  "3,  8    ; 


8  5  19*3 

&  1948 
MAX  89  19471 


NOV  5 

NOV  281955 

DEC  2  2 1956 
MAY  2  41957 


Form  L-9 
aom-l, '41(1122) 


UMTIB23ITT  Of  ( 

LC3 

LlbKAHT 


A    000  555  481     1 


